The First Curse of Storybrooke
by L.Marks
Summary: I have added Merlin and Morgana to the mix that is Once Upon a Time. It has now become a crossover between OUaT and MerlinBBC, a kind of Merlin AU. Introduces a few other new characters. Some scenes with Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold, Dr. Whale, Dr. Hopper, and others.
1. Broken Curses

Morgana pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the small window and looked out at the world. There was a faint rustle behind her, but she was sure few people would look for her here - someone could, in theory, have noticed the door was unlocked and had come up to see who was so desperate for solitude, but the library was locked and unwelcoming. The clock tower was her favorite haunt, and only Mr. Gold would have known to look for her here, but the footsteps were not his, and nor was the mellow voice that fell upon her ears.

"I thought I'd find you here. You always loved clockwork, and all that delicate machinery."

She shuddered, and in a strained voice, replied, "But only Gold knows how to get in here, I showed him the door."

"Well, let's just say - I wasn't surprised when he brought me here." She did not dare turn around to face him. "So, Madame Morgana, you took my memory, and then you refused to give it back."

"I didn't, not intentionally. I couldn't undo it, and even if I had found a way, how could I -"

"- Tell me that our children were lost to another world? And that we could not follow them there, not without losing much of ourselves? That was entirely my fault, you know. We could have thought of something, Morgan. Even if we followed them there, at least we would still be a family."

With a gasp she wiped away a stray tear, still keeping her back to him. "Memories are all we're made of, and losing the best and the worst ones would still mean losing a great part of you. The ones you retain are so skewed as to make you a completely different person. Maybe, deep inside somewhere, you are still who you should have been - but it's like looking at yourself through a warped looking glass, and seeing something alien - almost like looking at the people here, knowing their counterpart. Only children remain unchanged."

"But that means they remember us as we were, and they know the difference." She nodded. "We could have tried, you know."

"No, Merlin. We can never be a family now, in any world where there is magic, not after what I've done. For now, at least, before Rumpelstiltskin brings back magic, as I know he will, we have each other, but as soon as he brings it back, you will forget me." Morgana's tears spilled from her eyes once more.

Merlin shook his head with a weary smile. "How could I forget you, Morgan, my love?"

"Because the magic I used cannot be undone! And in truth, I'd rather be in your place, not remembering. You still had a chance at happiness, you had hope. I know for sure now that my curse cannot be broken."

With a sigh, Merlin chided, "You never were in my place, dear, it's not all that wonderful."

"But I was." Her silhouetted form turned to him, eyes glowing out of the dark. "I was Willow. It took some time to learn to coexist with her mind, her view of the world, for all that she and I were so alike. She was a much younger Morgana, but life had taken a far greater toll on her by that age than it had on me. It was very difficult, until Willow met Maximilian Ambrose - you. That was the opening, the strongest point that we both had in common.

"It was easier to be Willow - to wish, to dream, to hope. They do say, losing memory makes one younger." She lapsed into silence once more and turned back to the window. After a long pause, she spoke once more, uncertainly, "I'm sorry, my dear. I stole from you what you valued most. I should have known that for you, even the slightest chance was hope against all hope. It was a little selfish of me to consider it my private madness."

Behind her, Merlin rose from his improvised seat and drew closer. "You know," he sharply stopped right behind her, as if struck by a sudden thought, "I could never have had enough patience, to do what you did. To shape Rumpelstiltskin into who he is - unique, as the only Dark One who ever had so much knowledge and a single goal to use it for. He gave you the perfect means to the end, and you gave him all the knowledge you could share with no one else. And then you grew close to him - enough to want to help him. And he gave you the chance to return my memory to me, and find our children together. But now you would run from it."

He gently took her by the shoulder and turned her face to his own. "Morgana, all those years ago, when we were separated, and we were afraid it would be for a very long time - we promised each other something. It was your idea, I remember. For every year we lost, you said, we could dream up memories - what it would have been like, if we were together. Things we would have done, places we would have seen, funny little stories about days spent walking through cities and along beaches and through art galleries."

She did not look up, but nodded. "Morgan - the fact that I did not remember your face, your voice, or even your eyes, never once stopped me from dreaming up those stories. All these years, it kept me sane."

At last her gaze, brimming with tears, rose to his own. "Merlin," she whispered, smiling through the pain of knowing they had but minutes left together, knowing that because of her, in a moment, he would forget everything again. She could feel magic returning, rushing back from the well in the forest.

"I will never stop looking for you," he promised, and stooped to embrace and kiss the woman he loved.

The purple cloud rolled over Storybrooke and was gone in seconds, leaving the townspeople puzzled, but overjoyed at reuniting with long-lost loved ones. In the clocktower, however, Morgana wept bitterly, falling to her knees. She was alone again, and never had she been more keenly aware that it was her fault, and that her happy ending might never come at all.


	2. Welcome to Storybrooke

Willow leaned back in the passenger's seat with a breezy sigh. "You can't be serious. Of all the places we could have gone - we could have set out to see the world! And you want to come here? _Storybrooke_. It's not even on a map."

Edwin said nothing.

"I would have preferred Cape Cod, even. We could have had a house near the shore. You're not listening. I know you're not listening. I talk this much only when I've had ten cups of coffee and you're definitely not here. Stop the car."

Edwin looked over at her sharply. "What - why?"

"You're falling asleep."

"I am? Oh. Yeah, probably."

"Yeah," she couldn't help but mimic his dull tone. "Pull over before you hit a moose."

They switched seats briskly in the cold wet air. Willow settled in with a shiver and readjusted the seat and the mirrors. Edwin stared straight ahead along the headlights as she fumbled about, then spoke just as she pressed down on the accelerator again. "The old family house is there."

Willow shot him a glare. "You heard all that and let me keep talking," she snapped.

"Ten cups of coffee, and you hardly ate anything - it happens so rarely, I actually enjoy it when you rattle on like that. Usually keeps me awake, too, but it's so dark and cold out here."

Willow sighed and propped her head up, elbow against the window. But Edwin, for all that he looked as tired as if he'd seen two consecutive emergency room shifts, did not fall asleep.

"And the house isn't far from the shore," he added. "I mean, it is, it's sort of in the woods, and somewhat far from the town. It's secluded. But it's not actually - you know - creepy, or anything."

Willow sighed again. "Edwin," she said patiently, "when was the last time you were there?" He should have realised by now, even if she was successful in keeping it out of her tone, that a moderate level of annoyance coursed through her entire slender frame. It was written all over her face, in her narrowed eyes and tight lips, but he wasn't looking in her direction.

"Three years?" he ventured, then thought again, confused. "Eight," he concluded at last.

"Eight years. Think it looks anything like it used to?"

Edwin shrugged. "The town wouldn't change that much. The house, though..."

His wife nodded. "Yeah. An unoccupied house left alone for eight years. There's a bed and breakfast in this town that you remember, right?"

"Yeah," he muttered absently.

"Good." Slowly her foot pressed down harder, and the car, a beautiful, thoroughly menacing Jaguar XJR, eagerly bounded forward.

Edwin shook himself back to alertness. "Willow, what are you doing?" he asked nervously. "You know it's raining, right?"

He quickly went silent, gripping at the door, staring wildly at his wife, who didn't seem to give a damn. He'd never known her to do anything the least bit like that, and in fact he knew she preferred to drive an automatic transmission. Granted, she had an ache in her knee after twenty minutes of working the clutch in stop-and-go traffic.

"Here's your problem, Edwin," she said testily, "you never let the car do what it wants."

He managed to force himself to speak at last. "Is there something you'd like to say to me, directly, before you kill us?"

But Willow had already caught sight of the sign that read 'Welcome to Storybrooke', and eased up off the throttle. "Well I guess that got your attention. But - hey, too bad, we're already here." The Jaguar cruised to a stop again on the highway shoulder just outside of the town.

"One more thing, Edwin," Willow said, as she shifted the gear into 'Park' and took her handbag off his lap, "you keep forgetting. It's my car."

She took the keys out of the ignition and stepped out. Confused, he stared after her mutely as she walked over to the boot, opened it, and fumbled around in it for a minute. It wasn't until she closed the trunk and set off at a steady pace past the car and down the main road that he realised she was carrying her suitcase. He cursed softly, then realised no one was around to hear him, and shouted again loudly at her, though the fog had already hidden her silhouette.

Of course, she'd taken his set of keys: he'd been the first one to drive. Her set was in that handbag. And he knew it wasn't a mistake.

Willow Morgan loved the rain, even this cold unfriendly drizzle that seeped right to the bone. She loved the expectation of a steaming cup of coffee - or tea, at this hour - and the thought of a hot shower to thaw out. Rain always lifted her spirits, just as snow always calmed her. She felt like she'd left a load behind when she'd stepped into town, although that was absurd - Edwin wasn't going to stay out there, and this town was exactly the problem. She hated small, sleepy, stagnant towns.

Still, there was something oddly charming about this place: it made her feel at home, somehow. There wasn't a sign of life about the place, and Willow loved that rare time of day or night when no one was around. Ghost town, she thought, with a smile. She couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled, genuinely.

She didn't expect to find anyone around at Granny's Bed and Breakfast, but was pleasantly surprised indeed.

"We don't get a lot of visitors from out of town here," the landlady chattered, at once anxious and excited.

"But you seem so well prepared," Willow remarked, quite impressed. "See, I was falling asleep at the wheel, so I left my car on the side of the road, just at the edge of town. The walk did do me some good, but I'd rather go back there tomorrow and pick up the car than do it now."

"I absolutely understand. I can call the sheriff out to get it for you."

"Um," Willow thought for a moment, then shrugged lightly. "No, I think it's alright. Well - I mean, if it's not too much trouble for him, then, I'd be very grateful. Shall I leave my car keys?"

Upstairs in a small homely room, Willow set her suitcase down and kicked off her boots by the door. She had enough presence of mind to hang her trench coat carefully on the dresser, then dove straight onto the bed and fell asleep.

* * *

It was a late night for both of them, but Willow had gotten home first. Edwin dragged his feet in an hour later, looked across at Willow, and was struck by a sudden thought.

"Dinner was on me tonight, wasn't it?"

Willow looked up, confused. "Was it? Oh, don't worry about it, then," she smiled sheepishly.

Edwin cast a glance at the frying pans on the stove, the setting on kitchen table, then back at his wife. "Today isn't some anniversary I forgot, is it?" he ventured cautiously, taking off his coat and scarf.

"No," Willow shook her head, "I don't remember any."

"Did you - uh - did you get a promotion or something?"

"What kind of promotion? No, Henderson hasn't died and made Murphy chief."

Edwin sighed and nodded in agreement. "Murphy would make a bloody good chief. And Henderson would make a good throw rug," he added, as he bent down to take of his boots.

"I thought you two exchanged olive branches?"

"He broke mine," Edwin groused. Willow couldn't help a laugh. She pushed herself off onto her feet and walked over to him, sliding her hands over his shoulders and around his neck as he straightened up again. "I want to get out, Willow," he said with an air of complete seriousness.

"Out of what?" she asked, sure he was joking.

"Out from under Henderson's hamfisted control."

"Oh, I see," Willow nodded sagely, "_you_ want to be Chief."

"Eh," he considered briefly, "Murphy's good, and I wouldn't be better. No, I'd settle for going somewhere where I'm not permanently in the Chief's black books and have some potential for growth."

Willow sighed and released him, and stepped into the kitchen. "Do you actually want to find another place?" This was beginning to sound a little too serious for her liking. Henderson had probably found some new way to salt old wounds.

"I do, actually."

"Where?"

"Somewhere new. Some other city."

Slowly she felt the hair on the back of her neck rising, bristling. 'Some other city'? She had allowed that he might look for another place in the city - he'd even had interviews. Then, abruptly, two or three months ago, the interviews had stopped, and even Henderson seemed a little more pleasant for a few sweet weeks.

"Actually I've already found a place. I had a telephone interview, they were very pleasant," he was saying. A telephone interview? And how far away would that be?

Willow coughed. "You want me to come with you?"

"Of course I do, Willow."

"So they made you an offer?"

"Better than that, I used to live there," he replied, smiling.

"Edwin," Willow stopped him. "Edwin, is there something I should know?"

"Like what?" His tone was rather innocent, so much so that Willow cursed inwardly. He always answered like that, she couldn't sense a drop of guilt until she pushed just a little harder, and she hated doing it.

"Edwin, stop it. You find Henderson _fun_," she protested. "I mean, you have to, I see no other explanation. You had interviews here, in the city, and then two or three months ago you stopped going. I thought you and he had come to some sort of understanding, or an arrangement."

"What - Henderson, want to keep me? Nonsense."

Willow's arms unfolded in an expression of utter disbelief. "I don't believe for a second that you didn't get a place somewhere in this city." - Well, admittedly, she thought, it wasn't impossible. He could occasionally put people off.

He sighed heavily. "Willow, sit down."

Edwin's tone was ominous, and Willow sooner fell into a nearby chair than sat.

"Two and a half months ago I went to Roger for a check-up," he said.

"You didn't tell me," Willow said at once.

"I couldn't," Edwin said quietly. "I didn't know how to say it."

"Say what?"

"Lung cancer," he managed at last. "I don't want the treatments, Willow. I didn't think you'd want to hear that."

Willow stared blankly at him, as though she'd never seen him before. "Oh," she let out softly.

"I just want to move back into my old town, live out my last days there. Willow, can you hear me?"

She'd looked away, and was presently staring into the living room, tears in her eyes. "What? Fine. I'm fine. Aren't you going to eat something?" she asked. He couldn't bring himself to say another word.


	3. Willow

Sheriff Graham pulled drove up alongside the beautiful Jaguar only half an hour after Willow had left it. He found it in pristine condition - only that it was, apparently, unlocked. The weather had been mildly unpleasant for the last week, but now it had quite suddenly cleared, as if the rain clouds had been pulled into town and over to the woods. It was warmer now, in the middle of the night, than it had been all day. The Sheriff parked nearby, figuring he'd walk back for it from Granny's, after he moved the newcomer's car.

Willow had not slept long: she was up at six, and scrambled all over the unfamiliar room looking for all sorts of important odds and ends before she realised that she wasn't due at work, she hadn't been on call, and really there was nothing to be rushing around for so madly. She sat down on the edge of the bed, which she'd slept on rather than in, and discovered that she felt more rested than she ever had in years. She directed her attention to her suitcase, and decided she might as well brush her teeth at least.

Twenty minutes later, she had showered and dressed. What does one do on at six twenty on a weekend in a tiny little town in Maine that doesn't even show up on a map? It was probably too cold to explore the beach, she thought, watching the wind worry the branches outside her window. It was still early spring, and that wasn't exactly beach-going season in Massachusetts. But even for early spring the weather was mild: at least she might take a walk about town before breakfast.

Willow was surprised to find the car parked near the inn, and more surprised that Edwin was not in it. Of course, she had considered that he would prefer to find his old house rather than sleep in the car, but she'd taken the keys, and she hadn't considered that he might leave it unlocked. It hadn't been done with malicious forethought - she had actually forgotten, and only realised that she had another set when rummaging through the handbag this morning. A cold blast swelled at her right, and she turned to face it, crossing her arms and strolling casually towards the street.

In general, she found herself hugely unimpressed with the state of things. It was clean and possibly even friendly, but the most disturbing sight was that of the boarded-up library and its broken clocktower. She scowled at it disapprovingly.

"It hasn't worked in years," a pleasant voice intruded on her thoughts.

"Clocks are one thing. Deserted libraries are quite another," she said as she turned to face the person who had so unexpectedly accosted her.

He looked remarkably familiar. He wasn't very tall, and stood leaning on a cane. His accent was distinctly Scottish, and Willow felt sure she would have remembered him.

"It is a shame," he agreed. "My name is Mr. Gold, and you are?"

"Morgan." She reached forward to take his outstretched hand, but lingering at the very last instant. Her smile faltered as she looked up again into his eyes. It was as if a dam had been torn down inside her head, and so much flooded her conscious mind all at once.

"Willow!" someone shouted from behind him. Her gaze flickered past Gold to Edwin, who slowly advancing against the wind, hugging himself in the cold.

"Willow Morgan," she recovered herself, and smiled again.

"And that would be -?"

"Edwin, my husband. He lived here, years ago."

"Did he," Gold mused, turning to look over at him.

Edwin froze in his tracks, then gave a single nod, which was coldly returned by both of them. "Willow," he continued, reaching her at last, "I've been there, it's not bad at all."

"I took the liberty of having someone care for your house while you were away, if that is what you are referring to," Mr. Gold offered coolly.

"You're very kind," Edwin replied, somewhat insincerely. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to show my wife home?"

"Of course!" Gold said, magnanimously.

"Excuse us. It was a pleasure meeting you," Willow added as Edwin tugged gently at her elbow.

He nodded and watched them withdraw a short distance before heading on his way.

"Exactly what was that about?" Willow snapped quietly.

"He owns the whole town - the buildings, the land. Everyone pays him rent. And it's like he knows all the secrets. Don't ever trust him, Willow."

"Oh, now you're giving me advice on whom to trust?" Willow protested halfheartedly.

"This time it's not advice, Willow. He's ruthless."

"You're one to talk," she muttered.

He glared at her a moment, then shook his head and let it pass. "You have an interview at nine with the Chief at the town hospital. Where's your suitcase, at the inn?"

"I was going to have breakfast there."

"Well, when you're done, pack up your things. I'll get the car, drop you off at the hospital, and bring your stuff back to the house."

"Slow down," she interrupted sharply. "I don't even think I want to live in your old house, that this person you don't trust has been caring for all this time. And the car is parked at the inn. I can drive myself around town, too, but mostly I prefer to walk."

"Willow - stop it, you're just doing this to be contrary -"

"You bet I am. It would be one thing if you just marshalled me around like a helpless fool, but this is rich. You've already decided and arranged everything, and all that's left for me to do is to fall into line behind you."

"What's gotten into you?" he cried out at last, stopping dead as Willow, who had been fighting against his grip on her arm finally broke free and surged forward. They were past the houses and nearer to the tree line on the road that led into the woods. "You were never like this!"

Already ten brisk steps ahead, she spun around on her heel and fixed him with a look so fierce he was sure his eyes stung, not from the wind, but from her anger.

"No, I just forgot how much easier it was to be me than to fit into the life you made for yourself. The only thing I loved about you was that you were a brilliant doctor and teacher. You're a selfish bastard, and I'm all too forgiving of selfish people. I tell myself, they have a right to be arrogant, they have so many achievements to be proud of, but you had no right to take my life and throw it away like you're throwing away yours!"

Pale and trembling with anger, he advanced on her. "I don't want to spend the last of my days poisoned and dying of the drugs they'll pump into me," he snarled. "I've seen my patients go through that, and now I'm the one who's sick. I have a say in how it ends, and you don't have a right to tell me that I'm throwing my life away."

Willow stood her ground, face brightened by her fury. "Now, that -" she answered, with deathly calm, "is exactly the point: you've given up hope. You've stopped living, Edwin. Oh, and of course you've pulled me down with you, because I'm your wife, and where you go, I go," she added, with scathing sarcasm. "Into this hole of a town. But, you know, I like it. It's nice here, quiet. With strange, ruthless men lurking about in the early hours of the morning. I might even stay when you're gone."

Edwin stared at her silently for a moment, then dropped his gaze and pushed past her. "Well come on then," he called back hollowly, "I'll show you the house. Since you might be staying anyway."

She watched him trudge along on his own for a little, then followed. Edwin slowed his pace until she had leveled with him, reaching out for her hand. It slipped into his, small and warm, with a grip so tight, it seemed like she was afraid he might slip away. He turned off the road and led her through a barely discernible trail through the trees, right up to the back of a lonely stone house. He walked right up to the French doors and paused, turning to her. "You'll love this," he said gently, before throwing them open and letting her step inside.

She stepped into a large and beautiful library, two stories high with a spiral staircase in one corner and a ladder in the other. "That's not all," he added, shutting the doors behind them, "there's an entire study devoted to medical books. That's the door to it upstairs."

He led her through halls full of paintings and portraits and ancient curios and bookshelves, and yet there was an air of light and space all about them. Indeed, the house looked surprisingly modern, given its exterior, and it was startling so much space could be contained within.

Finally, having walked her through both floors and the basement, Edwin beckoned her to follow him out, and they strolled down to the edge of the trees.

"It's not much, and it's cold," he said, "but it's a beach."

And admittedly, it was a beach. It welcomed them, not with a frigid blast, but with a light swell. They stood close to each other, watching the waves break upon the shore. Willow sighed, taking it in, breathing deeply.

"I used to think - someday, I would meet my soulmate," she said at last. "I would meet a brilliant young doctor who would have a tremendous appreciation for all the finer things in life, and would never pass up the chance to remind me of them. He would take me to art museums and galleries, and explain the very things that made the paintings and sculptures and carvings so beautiful and precious. He would tell me the historical significance, the context of the times in which something important was created, just as I could tell him about music. He could look up at a building and explain the physics behind the structure's support and elegance. He could open my eyes to the world through his eccentric view of things. The sort of man who could write perfectly plausible historical fiction, like my mother and I used to work on together."

Edwin looked across at her, puzzled. "You were the one who did all that for me," he said.

"Right." She nodded. "I discovered that in this world, the only way to heal a soul starved for art and beauty was to seek it out on my own. You asked me once why I had chosen surgery as my arena. The human body is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, engineered to perfection, fascinating even in illness. It has invisible internal mechanisms and cycles, more intricate than clockwork, more puzzling than encrypted texts and ancient languages."

She sighed heavily. "I love what I do, and you asked me to leave what I had behind and come here, start over, from scratch. It's bad enough they almost didn't hire me in New York. I knew a woman who happened to be one of the most gifted people in my class, and she only got through it all because her father, a star surgeon, pushed for it. To abandon all that, to become a lowly nurse who is ignored and treated like a skirt beside a doctor - I don't have a father who could tear down the walls for me, and you don't have that man's reputation. Not here." Willow shook her head.

"Have a little faith, Willow, they're not completely behind the times," Edwin muttered as he turned back to the water. "Will you stay?" he asked, after a pause.

Willow blinked: her eyes watered, but it wasn't the wind. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Please," he whispered.

"I'll stay."


	4. Travelers Are Dangerous

If Rumpelstiltskin could have torn the Blue Fairy to pieces, he certainly would have. In his rage, he trampled through the forest, angry and alone. He had to find his son - but all he had was the story of a magic bean. In his anger, he burst full tilt out of the trees and found himself only a few meters away from a hooded figure sitting by a brook.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

"No one," a low voice answered. "You want to be alone, and I like being alone, so be on your way."

"Do you know who I am, you impudent vagabond?"

"A desperate soul," the hood answered. "Terrible, isn't it? You help others, but you can't even help yourself. I bid ye good day."

The traveler rose and made to move away, but found Rumpelstiltskin in his path.

"Don't speak so lightly, words are important things," he cautioned the stranger.

"Indeed, but so few people are left today who truly understand their worth. Now, if you don't mind -"

"Oh, I do very much mind. See, these - are my woods, and you - are an intruder. And you know far too much about things that aren't your business, so -"

Rumpelstiltskin moved sharply to tear away the hood, but - bizarrely - missed.

"Oh, sorry," the traveler said, unapologetically, "I forgot to mention that."

Someone unexpectedly placed a deft kick to the back of the Dark One's knee, and the hooded figure vanished, only for another to step around into its place. "I like to travel with decoys." The stranger shook off the dark hood, revealing an auburn-haired woman with a daring glint in her eye.

"And I normally like to avoid the Dark One as much as possible, by the way," she added. "No offense meant. I see you have your dagger. I suppose that makes you the master of your own fate, at least to a greater extent than most. I've met too many of your predecessors who were blundering fools."

Rumpelstiltskin rose carefully. "Who are you?" he repeated.

"The name is Morgana. And now if you'll excuse me, I'll be going."

"What did you mean, about desperate souls?" he called after her.

Morgana stopped a few paces away, and turned around to face him again. "That's what got you into this mess."

"Can you help me?"

"What, so you can kill me, when I'm finished?"

"I'll only kill you if you fail," he replied reasonably.

Morgana proudly straightened to her full height. "I don't fail. And you can try, I rather doubt you'll succeed."

"Then you have nothing to lose. You can name any price."

"Oh, no - no, that won't do. I'm afraid it'll take rather a long time to help you, Rumpelstiltskin. And besides, the price is hard to figure."

"Everyone has a price, Morgana."

She considered carefully for a few minutes, as he stood and waited for an answer. "I suppose I can help."

"And what do you want in return?"

"Patience, Rumpelstiltskin. What I want is not yet yours to give. But I will say, I want what you want. Come," she held out her hand. As he cautiously took it, not sure what to expect, the landscape changed.

They stood among ruins, a desolate place over which the fog swirled in gauzy, cloth-like shreds. "This is home," she said, her voice rising up out of the quiet air, deep, warm, and calm. He followed her, somewhat unnerved, down a flight of steps and through what must have been a short path of an underground labyrinth, up another flight into warm golden light.

"This is the Library Tower. Once it belonged to a grand civilisation that prized knowledge and discovery above all else. Eventually, it became a tool to prevent the spread of knowledge outside the City they had built for themselves. Shipbuilding, healing, teaching - they all held the keys, and made themselves masters of the world, and then refused to use that power. It was a terrible mistake: instead of even sharing a part of what they knew, they hoarded it. Knowledge exists to be shared, for better or for worse."

Dinner with the hostess was strange, to say the least. He felt as though he were simply human again, and it was almost pleasant. To distract himself, he listened as Morgana chatted merrily. She seemed quite young - at least she looked so - but everything about her betrayed an age far greater than her appearance suggested.

She was amazingly quick - her flow of speech uninterrupted, her face flashing through many expressions as if they could all appear at once. And yet she could sit back, and be perfectly still - the change was something he could not easily adapt to.

"What are you?" he interrupted finally.

She looked back and gave a short and not altogether merry, deep-voiced chuckle. "No one, dear, and nothing: just a figment of the world's collective imagination. I'm a relic, the last one of my kind: my people no longer exist. We used to rely on each other for our magic, but now, I have no one to share it with. I've had to constrain it a little."

"You mean, feeling powerless -"

"Is normal here? Yes. It's disturbing, isn't it?"

"Where is this place?"

"Nowhere in particular. It ceased to exist in its proper place long ago. If I were to try to put it back, I might flatten out a forest. But it is, in some sense, a portal to a great many other worlds."

"Worlds without magic?"

"A few of those, too," she admitted. "But I must tell you, they're no longer reliable. Centuries ago, this was part of a City that built in a desert. The people who built it were the first to travel between worlds, but they traveled from a specific location, and this tower is no longer there. It's a little bit in-between, I guess you could say."

"How did they travel?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, curious. Morgana rose and beckoned him to follow. She led him to the uppermost level of the tower, into a hall of mirrors.

"These are portals to other worlds. There was an entire system to them, but now these mirrors don't lead anywhere in particular. They are like Lake Nostos: they exist everywhere in some form. Unfortunately, since this tower is no longer at the point of origin, well - they're useless."

"So how do you propose to help me?" He had to admit, he was rather disappointed by the fact that the mirrors proved useless.

Morgana turned walked down the stairs one level, then stopped sharply, and kicked one of the stones in the wall. With a clang, a portion of bricks slid apart, revealing a passage into another room.

Now they stood in great room with high vaulted ceilings, beautiful as a cathedral and yet full of light. The windows were of clear glass, but high in each was set a fine snowflake-like design that had been stained with mostly light colors, only a few dark for contrast. Each dome - there were eight surrounding the largest central one, four small and four just a bit smaller than the main dome, and many others smaller and smaller as they were removed from the centre - painted the great hall with brilliant splashes of color. If walls and floors could speak, they would sing.

"This is the uppermost room of the library tower. All my books, all my years of peace and solitude and barely any magic at all - this is my survival. This place holds the secrets of so many magical creations, any might help you find the land you seek."


	5. Duality

With a few minutes to herself, Willow Morgan slowly approached the full-length mirror in the master bedroom and considered what she saw there. Since the sudden onrush of memories prompted by the meeting with Mr. Gold, she couldn't help but wonder what to make of this town, and of herself.

Before the mirror stood two women, one old to the point of being ageless, the other believing herself to be past her prime. And yet, for fifty, Willow looked still young, but to Morgana, she looked as though her former self had gained ten years or more. Her hair was not what she remembered, a tamer chestnut shade than her rich auburn. There were lines at the corners of her mouth and creases in her brow, as if she'd forgotten how to smile.

Willow fought against this encroaching consciousness, ignoring as best as she could the overwhelming centuries of a rich and varied life - as deeply sad as it had been profoundly happy. She might even have succeeded, locked away her fantastical world forever, but for the fact that she was suddenly forced to face the emptiness of her own.

Willow and Edwin had had children. Two children: a son and a daughter, only a few years apart. Morgana remembered her son and daughter, their names, their ages, their habits and quarrels and favourite stories. Willow couldn't remember when or why they'd left home of her life depended on it, and why they'd never called or written home. Where had they gone to college? Or did they just - suddenly leave home?

As Willow puzzled over these and other odd gaps in her memory - meeting Edwin, his proposal - Morgana stepped around to her suitcase and heaved it onto the bed. As she rifled through it, she found only greys and blacks, or colours so dark they could be overlaid and one would have trouble telling blue from green. It would be impossible not to admit that they were at least tasteful clothes, but while they suited Morgana of the enchanted world, they were hardly Willow's best choice.

The woman cast another look at the mirror behind her. On closer inspection, she didn't seem old at all, but very sad, as if something in her life had become a great disappointment to her. Morgana gave up on the suitcase and turned to the closet with low expectations. She emerged seconds later with an impressive armful, finding herself pleasantly surprised. She had an interview to dress Willow for, and while interviews were hardly the place to express individuality, at this point it would do less harm than good. A thin peach turtleneck and a charcoal grey suit were a definite improvement.

* * *

Edwin could hardly look at Willow. She'd gone quiet again, and the sort of morose quiet that he'd almost never seen.

The interview had gone well, so long as the matters under scrutiny were Willow's skill and charm, and she even surprised herself, completely taken aback by the fluency of the easy banter that passed her smiling lips. But when it came to a discussion of hiring her - well, that didn't go too smoothly. Dr. Whale had been favourably impressed with her readiness and temper, but when he mentioned that they had no place available, except maybe that of a nurse, Dr. Morgan had instantly gone a little chillier. She asked why she'd been interviewed in the first place, and Dr. Whale had apparently provided a careless answer, somewhat to the effect of granting her husband's request.

Dr. Morgan's face changed entirely, from a sweet smile to a glassy expression of the purest politeness, as she thanked him for the honest response. And then she turned and walked away.

"I'm sorry," Edwin said at last, "I really thought there was a chance -"

But Willow raised a hand to cut him off and shook her head. "Just tell me this: what am I supposed to do now? What - do I paint, do I brush up my cello again, do I learn Italian or try my hand at knitting?"

Edwin gaped for a moment, then shrugged. "You've always wanted to write."

"I did write, Edwin, just not for a living. I had patients to write about. What have I got to write about here? About this sleepy town and the depressed people in it," Willow scowled, but her expression cleared rather quickly. "Not such a bad idea, actually."

Edwin had about given up trying to reason with her, as she was increasingly changeable. It took him days to realise that she was doing her best not to be angry with him, and more importantly, that overall she was succeeding.

"Are you sure," he hazarded, "are you quite sure you won't take the job? You'll go insane, cooped up in here."

"Who says I have to be cooped up? The weather's nice, the trails are clean, the people don't bite, and the coffee's superb. Sometimes. Mine's better."

That sounded more like Willow, at least, always raring to go at a challenge. He wondered what this challenge was, exactly, anyway - it wasn't as though staying sane had ever been one of her goals, not with the hours she worked. She pushed herself to some unknown limit, and nothing was ever enough - enough work, enough effort. He knew her to be capable of driving herself to the point of collapse, and he rather suspected that the only thing that kept her just a hair shy of the edge was some prior misfortune. An injury, perhaps, or an illness brought on by that mad force raging within her. Where was her sense of self-preservation?

Willow studied the concerned look on his face with interest. "Edwin, if I take a job here as a nurse, I'll never be anything else," she said quietly.

"And if they offer you something better?"

"Only if I know I'll stay here," she said. "I don't know that yet."

"So you'll sit here without a job. And wait," Edwin nodded. "You'll just wait for me to die."

"Stop that."

"I dragged you here -"

"Edwin!" she cut him off, a warning clear in her voice, but his glare dared her to deny what he was thinking. "Edwin, who knows how much time we have left together?" Willow said softly, reaching out to take his hands. "Don't ruin it by making yourself feel guilty for the choices I make. That's an order. I'm still a doctor, I get the last word on this."

Edwin scoffed, but smiled in spite of himself. "That's no argument," he said.

"Tough."

"One more question, Willow," he said.

"Oh, very well, what do you want?" she snapped, but grinned.

"I should have told you about the diagnosis. But I need to know - and maybe I never will, now - how would you have reacted?"

Willow's smile faded. "What did you think I'd do?"

"I thought you'd never even let me consider refusing treatment."

"_Let _you? Edwin, you married a doctor." Willow had a tired expression, too tired to even look hurt. "What oath did we take? How many people did we see who were dying, who didn't want to go like that? The patient has the last word, Edwin. How many times did we repeat that to ourselves, over and over? Or did you forget, I am as much a doctor as you?"

* * *

Willlow waited for Edwin to retreat into his study, then stole back to the mirror and looked into it again. She felt bizarre, as if she had two pairs of eyes in her head, one pair her own and one - was it her mother's? No, it couldn't be that. This was too close, too much like herself, and with such a fantastical set of memories that read like fiction - that definitely was not her mother's stripe.

The woman looking back at her from the mirror with those lively grey eyes, from her own face, she was so strangely alive, so happy to _be_ alive. Willow looked down at her hands and arms, carefully slipping off the wool cardigan and drawing up her sleeves. They had always looked small and delicate, and yet they startled her, as if they should have been even smaller. She had felt for so long as though her very consciousness occupied less space than her body, and now suddenly it seemed again as though it filled her entire form. It was such an old, unfamiliar feeling.

There was a smile on that face, all of the sudden. It rose, unbidden, and laughter stirred in her chest. Willow couldn't believe her own ears.

Morgana, too, found something remarkable in Willow. It was so long ago that she had been even this young, so full of dreams - even unrealised, disappointed, stunted, shelved and dusty dreams. But Willow hadn't lived long enough yet to know that nothing was ever impossible and 'late' was so easily crushed by 'never'. Perhaps only to a woman who had lived long enough to be immortal, it was clear that mortals so often passed up the chance at their hopes and dreams by hiding in self-imposed prisons and constructs of their mind.

If anyone had the potential to break them, someone who could work with fierceness and eternal patience - it was Willow. She would never give up.


	6. A Parting of Ways

Merlin and Morgana stood together atop a steep cliff rise, marveling at the scene below. An odd-looking man stood brazenly in the middle of the battlefield and called halt to the Ogre Wars, and to their astonishment, the Warriors froze. They stood with bated breath watching the scene unfold, fascinated, exchanging occasional amazed glances.

"Of all the Dark Ones we have ever seen, he may yet be the least benightedly ignorant, or heartless," Morgana remarked. "Oh, my," she inhaled sharply, "that's his son, isn't it? There is some hope for this one."

"Oh, I don't know. Give it a few hundred years," Merlin said, which prompted a slight smirk, though with begrudging agreement, from his companion. Most Dark Ones didn't improve with age. But Morgana surreptitiously reached up to the blue jewel about her neck and pulled a little at the pendant.

Merlin snorted quietly, still eyeing the unfolding scene below, and asked with a tone drowned in sarcasm, "Just end the Ogre Wars: why didn't we think of that?"

Morgana sighed. "We happened to be bound by our word to the Duke and his allies to leave him be. That's the problem with giving your word before knowing the whole story, love."

Merlin elbowed her sharply. "I believe it would be more accurate to say we were under duress. He didn't even break the contract, that slimy old frog."

"He'd do well as a frog," she snickered, but didn't abandon her seriousness all the same. "The trouble now is the power vacuum. That is why we didn't want to break the alliances up, in the first place: now we don't know who will come out on top."

Merlin nodded slowly. "You know," he began haltingly, "we could, uh - we could -"

Morgana turned to him in surprise. "Spit it out, Merlin," she warned, rather than coaxed.

"We could play them against each other, and arrange them the way we want," Merlin suggested cautiously, as if he still hoped she might accept the idea. Her eyebrows arched dangerously, indicating it wasn't particularly well received at all - as expected.

"Merlin?"

"Well, we could. Morgana," he hummed, egging her on. She did love a challenge. "Come on, we could risk it."

"It's going to take a very long time. And we agreed it's not the sort of power anyone should have."

"I know, I remember."

Morgana looked at him curiously. "What do you remember?"

The question was almost inaudible, with a forlorn note in it that didn't seem entirely her own. Merlin knew enough to realise whose memories were stirring in her mind, and whose pain hid within her voice. "I remember Master Yen, and his maxim, 'for the greater good' - what that brought us all to. But, Morgana, we've been trapped in the Dark Ages since he stopped his meddling."

"It was better for a time," she protested.

"He couldn't keep a hold over his visionary world forever: no one could in all of history, not even the Minevar. And trying to build a utopian civilisation is a fool's errand. But surely trying to build a better one is worth the price?"

Morgana crossed her arms and looked down at Rumpelstiltskin again, as he led the children off the battlefield.

"Funny you should mention the Minevar," she mused. "He never really tried to control the Dragons, it was our magic that held us. A common goal, stronger than any single person. I don't think there has been a society quite like that of Dragons before or since, and it seems even that did not last. Yen wanted to rebuild that empire, only better - he misidentified the original fault."

"An empire of Dragons is the last thing this world needs. To hoard all the knowledge and discovery and place themselves above weaker, uneducated people? But you and I, we can build an empire of Dragonkind, the way they were supposed to be. A Kingdom of Men and Magic, Morgana! Imagine that."

Merlin sighed, carried away by the vision of a bright future, all that their people could have accomplished and all the things they could have lived to see - should have, in fact. And though she stood beside him smiling and shaking her head, Morgana couldn't help but be the smallest bit enticed by the idea.

Her home, her world, rebuilt. She had been born at the peak of the Dragon Age, its last generation, and she had come into her magic early, in the Red City, surrounded by the most powerful mages of old. More importantly she had been among her own peers, other children who had inherited - as their birthright - the most evolved form of Dragon Magic yet. It had continued to evolve for those that escaped The Collapse, the War, and the Fall of the city. But above all it seemed that Morgana had been marked by the Minevar, their Eldest, as his successor. She rarely thought of that - she preferred to think of him as still alive somewhere, someone she would meet again, see that crafty smile and share a conspiratorial wink.

But here she felt drawn to the idea with unnatural force, the very sort of passion that she had so often seen lighting up the Minevar's wisened form, for holding his people together and bringing out their best. He had been their collective conscience - until, one day, someone stopped listening. But on the last day of his life he had given Morgana a special gift, a gift only a Minevar could possess, though she had yet to grow into the title. Although, to be fair, there weren't that many Dragons left to outlive.

A Minevar, amongst powers unknown and as yet undiscovered, had a remarkable ability to see all possible futures. Not with certainty: an event with a ninety-five percent chance of occurring sometimes was bumped into a parallel universe by a three-percent stroke of luck. But sometimes it was possible to see certain events across all timelines, with centuries between them. Naturally, one couldn't see past one's own death, or even the circumstances of it: death was irrelevant to magic, because magic is never destroyed.

Morgana closed her eyes and breathed in the clear morning air, searching through all the combinations she could see. The longer the timespan, the less accurate the prediction, of course, but every war must end someday.

"Well," she sighed, "it seems you're right. This mess will end much sooner if we get our hands dirty. But sooner means three centuries rather than five."

Merlin hadn't yet grown accustomed to Morgana's gift, though centuries had passed since she first revealed it to him. "You have all that in you head," he marveled. "Surely this would mean putting that gift to its best use?"

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "Every Dragon wants to rebuild the lost world, but they always get it wrong. Maybe it's because we still don't really understand these people - they're not like us, they want different things."

Merlin's ears shifted back as he looked at her once more, then took her hand and led her back from the edge.

"Listen, Morgana: that man there, he gave up his life to save his son. We know what it means to be the Dark One better than anyone else, and he was willing to pay that price. Time and time again, we have seen heroes willing to give their lives to protect people they barely knew - we know there are heroes among men. And we have seen them come together in the worst of times, enemies united in a common goal: survival."

He looked into her eyes, searching for the part of her that knew, after all these years, what he knew.

"The only thing that makes them different, is that we believe they are," he said, with great significance, "and we don't understand them only because we think they are different."

Though the words clearly resonated with her, she remained unswayed. "You can't repeat the past, Merlin."

"We're not trying to repeat the old disasters," he exclaimed, laughing. "Besides, say what you will, but I have no intention of sitting around doing nothing for the next three or five centuries. It's enough that I've been trapped in the Crystal Cave for two."

That, at least, got a laugh out of her. "Master Yen did have an odd sense of humour, sealing an Earth Elemental in a cave. What's more concerning is that it actually worked," she teased

"I'll never live that down," he sighed resignedly. "You've only been there once, Morgana, and I didn't risk telling you. But over time I began to see things in the Crystals."

"What sort of things?" she asked, curious.

"I think, the sort of things you can see with your gift, but even more than that."

"More than that?"

"Morgana, we know there are other worlds, yes?" She agreed readily. "I suspect that we have counterparts in other places and times who are so much like us in character, and whose fate is sometimes so similar to our own, that they could practically be us." And in a heartbeat his excitement faltered, and turned to worry.

Morgana knew that feeling as well as any Seer. "What is it, Merlin? What did you see?"

He shook his head, flashing a slight smile. "I really shouldn't believe that the fate of a pair so much like you and me, in another world entirely, could have any bearing on our own."

"Seeing is believing that every vision comes to you for a reason, Merlin," Morgana assured him. "Always consider what you feel: it may either influence the vision, or the vision may be trying to send a particular message, but one way or another, it's always important."

He took one step back from her, wondering whether to tell her what he had seen or leave the matter be. But those eyes - there was a magnetic power in them, drawing the truth and the secrets from his mind and heart. "You're impossible," he muttered in astonishment. "There was a war, a terrible war that threw the world into darkness and left a scar for centuries to come. Centuries are nothing to us, but they were mortal."

Morgana turned thoughtfully, pacing the length of the length of the outcrop on which they stood. "Getting involved in this war would likely split us apart, even if not at first. And it could be years before we meet again."

"Is that what you see?" she heard him ask, with so much hope that her reply would be in the negative. They had lost so much time already, and it seemed as though every time a new adventure or catastrophe overtook them they happened to lose each other along the way yet again. Master Yen had trapped him for two endless centuries in a cave, and even managed to freeze an entire glacier around an unsuspecting Morgana.

A forlorn, sweet but hopeful tune from another world filled her ears suddenly, a tune that had kept Merlin from going mad in that cave, a song from another world. And as she closed her eyes and listened, an idea came to her. She spun back around quickly.

"No, that's not right - we're storytellers, aren't we? You and I, the stories we've written into being, they are in every spell we've ever cast and every place we've ever been. Promise me," she said breathlessly, "promise me that no matter where either one of us goes, whatever part of the world we end up in, we will always imagine what it would be like to be there together. We could think of stories of all the adventures as if we were never apart! And then someday we would meet again, and tell them to each other. They would be our memories."

Saddened by the prospect, Merlin looked out over the emptying battlefield again. "They wouldn't be real memories."

"What does it matter, really?" Morgana insisted earnestly. "It's no less real than a dream, and even dreams come true. That pair you saw, in another world - did they meet again after the war?"

"They did, yes. And never were apart again for the rest of their lives."

"If there's any indication, any chance of a happy ending for you and me, wouldn't that be it?"

Merlin pulled her towards him in a tight embrace. "I wish I never had to let you go. I promise, Morgana. I'd promise you anything to keep you with me forever."


	7. About Town

Willow settled into a routine quickly. In the mornings she and Edwin ate breakfast at Granny's Diner, and she stayed to finish her cup of coffee as Edwin left and walked to the hospital. It was the only way she could get him to walk at all - he refused to stroll all the way from home unless it was to Granny's with her. The first two breakfasts were uneventful, and Willow exchanged a few words with Granny about the weather, fishing, and living on the shore. But on her third day in town, as Edwin left, she gave up the booth and moved her seat to the bar, and was soon joined by a tall, shy-looking man with round horn-rimmed glasses.

"Hi!" he greeted excitedly. "You're new in town?"

Willow nearly sputtered over her coffee: a week had passed since her arrival, and she'd only spoken with Mr. Gold and Granny Lucas. No one seemed interested in the new arrivals, or simply hadn't noticed them, and either way that had suited her perfectly.

"Ah, yes," she smiled, "Dr. Willow Morgan -" and held out a hand. The man shook it heartily, much to her surprise.

"Dr. Hopper," he introduced himself, "Archie. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she replied with a bright smile.

"So," he said, taking the seat beside her, "what brings you to our sleepy little town?"

"A change of pace," Willow replied, without missing a beat.

"No kidding. You look like you've come straight from a city."

"Well, my husband has recently been hired by your town hospital," Willow told him. In response Dr. Hopper laughed, then stopped short.

"You're not joking, are you?" he asked cautiously. "A city doctor in a town hospital, that sounds like a turnaround."

Willow shook her head soberly. "No, not at all," she assured him, with a thin smile. "Not that he left the previous position on bad terms, don't misunderstand me. I can't imagine how this must look - as if we're running from something, I should think. But - no, really, we came here for a change of pace. Edwin has been having some health issues lately. He suggested here, his hometown, and I thought: fresh sea air, a slower pace - just what the doctor ordered. He'd never give up his work, I hoped he might at least slow down."

"So, if you don't mind me asking, what do you do? Not to be intrusive, but - you don't seem like you're in a rush, and I -"

"No worries, Dr. Hopper, I really am in no rush. I left my career back in New York City and came here to be with Edwin, for a time. Not a very long time, I suspect. I'm a doctor, same as he is, a cardiologist."

"Can't have been easy, fighting your way into the profession, and then giving it all up for a few months."

Willow would have shrugged it off, but she had to agree. "I was terribly afraid of leaving. But he wanted to come home, and I guess I had to come here with him to understand why it was so important."

He nodded sympathetically. "The things we do for love," Archie sighed.

"The most powerful force in the Universe," Dr. Morgan smiled again, a little more cheerfully.

"So, have you seen much of Storybrooke?"

"Not really. Do you have any recommendations?"

"Well, there's the lake. We even have a wishing well. Honestly, there's not much around here that you might find interesting," Archie admitted.

"Oh! - any chance you might know where I can find a piano? Or a cello - is there a music store in town?"

* * *

After breakfast, Willow walked out into the bright sunny day - the first one that week that actually felt like spring - in search of The Bards' Music Shop. Dr. Hopper had been as helpful as possible, but aside from being an avid listener, he didn't seem to have much of a musical inclination. Some strange thought brushed over her consciousness, as if she'd privately remarked that it was odd for a cricket to have no good sense for music. Willow at first let the thought pass through her, then shook her head as if she'd heard a voice saying something completely nonsensical over her ear. Some of the things her mind had been throwing at her recently were unutterably bizarre.

The Bards' Music Shop didn't look like much. The windows were darkened - it didn't seem a place many frequented. But from her conversations with Granny, Willow figured little changed in Storybrooke, and few seemed to have much of an inclination to music. Willow sighed and gave a small shrug, then stepped in.

And the world fell away behind her. Within it was warm and friendly, and instruments lined the walls, some guitars, clarinets, and saxophones were on display.

There was a back room, but as Willow had come more for curiosity's sake than for a vested interest, she assumed she wouldn't need assistance. The front of the store displayed the instruments, bathed in a golden light, shining in their glass cases, or perched up on the wall. The cases themselves were littered with a jumble of scores, books, vinyls. The music, Willow noted, was mostly jazz, but there was a corner devoted to classical. Here, she found her little sanctuary: piano music, solos, concerti, trios, quartets, quintets - old tomes of Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms - weathered and falling apart, and newer scores of Scriabin, Grieg - Willow's mind ran all around her in circles as she examined the disordered shelves, tumbling all over itself in excitement.

"I figured you for a violinist," someone said. The store's owner had been watching her from that back room, and now stepped into view.

"Cellist, actually, when I was little. Then I hurt my hand," Willow sighed, rising from her cramped crouch, but the sigh dissolved into a laugh. "I couldn't play the cello, but I couldn't not play. My parents were so irritated by all the tapping and humming and dancing - everything a six-year-old might do - so they took me to a therapist to see what could be done about that hand, and the therapist was a pianist, and he started off teaching me to play. Honest truth: the piano has my heart and soul. But I can't quite let go of the cello either, even though I can't manage very well with it," she flexed her fingers fretfully, then held out the other hand. "Willow, Willow Morgan."

He grasped the proffered hand firmly. "Scottie Crothers. My friends call me Scat. What are you looking for?"

Willow coughed shyly. "A piano. You wouldn't happen to know where I can find one?"

"A piano? We've got a couple in the back," Scottie did a double take. "That's not something people normally ask for."

"As it turns out, the Dutch estate does not have but one important thing, and that thing is a piano."

"I would've thought a piano would be a fixture in that house," he remarked, laughing a little. It was an alien predicament in Storybrooke, and he could already hear footsteps stirring in the back room, curiosity getting the better of his friends.

"It appears they never collected musical instruments," Willow shrugged. "Edwin once said his father passed up the opportunity to acquire a Stradivarius for the sake of a painting that never made it home with him. He returned, grousing that he should have bought the violin, then it wouldn't have mattered that it had been stolen." She winced noticeably.

"Sounds like him, alright," he said sympathetically. "Old Man Dutch was a character."

"You knew him?"

"Oh, Miss, if only you'da known Old Man Dutch, you'd think Mr. Gold weren't such a bad guy after all," Scottie laughed.

"He seems nice enough," she shrugged innocently, but with a smile that surely said she knew what game Gold was playing. That alone, Scottie thought to himself, put her far and way above anyone else who'd ever dealt with the mysterious Mr. Gold. But for her part, Willow could hardly put into words what it was that she knew, exactly. It was that strange voice in her head, acerbically witty and dangerously aware of an entire world, it seemed - a world of which Willow remained quite in the dark.

"Yeah, well, even a crocodile smiles," Scottie quipped. "Come on, I'll show you around."

She followed him to the back room, where she was surprised to find a small crowd.

"Heh! Look, they're all wondering who's buying the piano," Scottie chuckled. "Ms. Morgan, may I introduce - Shun Gon, our drummer. Eddie Lord, our guitarist - though we pretty much just call him Lord Eddie. Peppo here plays the accordion, and Billy plays double bass. We're the Swing Cats."

Willow paused for a second. "You're - a band?"

"And we could use a pianist," the charmingly English Lord Eddie smiled, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

Willow laughed. "I'm only classically trained, they don't teach the importance of improv these days. I'm afraid even if I could improvise, I couldn't keep up."

"Well let's see what you got," Billy suggested, through a mild Russian accent.

Willow shrugged agreeably, and walked back to the four or five pianos in the back, examining each as she went. She shook her head a little, but when she came across an unassuming old Steinway, she stopped short. It was an M - a modest 5'7'' grand. Morgan had owned a lovelier 6'2'' August Forster, one that sang with a full soul. But there was something familiar about this piano, something that promised the best sound she'd ever heard outside the house she'd grown up in.

She gave the Swing Cats a mischievous look, and sat down. Scottie was about to compliment her fine choice, like a good salesman, but she cut him off unceremoniously and began to play.

"I thought she said she couldn't improv?" Peppo whispered.


	8. The Pendragon

There was a woman on the battlefield. That in itself was astonishing to Michael, as he looked up and saw her, robed in iridescent white, walking among those who were dead and dying. He had seen her before, tending to the wounded, humming a soothing tune as she worked, carefully and cleanly dressing wounds, setting breaks and stitching gashes. Experience had taught her efficiency, but her gentleness and kindness were innate. She sometimes vanished for a few hours in the night and returned with herbs, tasking her understudies with the nighttime vigil while she was away. How she ever managed to find what she was looking for under cover of night, he could not say. But he saw that they had lost fewer patients in her care than in the course of any other battle Michael had ever witnessed.

He was still a fine young man, for the war had not yet made him old or hard-hearted: though he could fight even under heavy armour, some kind soul had judged it too soon to send him out against the enemy lines. He had been placed in the slightly safer position of a squire to a minor Lord, who was ambitiously plying his way through the ranks through his strategic acumen. Thus the two spent much of the time in the tents of generals and Kings, watching them plot the downfall of their enemies. The boy had a head enough for politics, but little patience for all the long-winded discussions, balancing, weighing of consequences. So he would sneak out of the tent and find the Healers.

Some of the Healers had The Gift: the gift of magic was a rare and secretive trait, a double-edged one. Everyone knew about the Dark One, and because of him many feared magic. Others knew that magics were different, and still others, like Michael, had a gift of their own. Michael, like most in a world where the gift was not always welcome, feared his burden and dreaded discovery. But this woman, though he sensed she had The Gift, she never used it. It puzzled him, for Healers were free to do as they pleased most of the time. Sometimes he saw hints of magic woven into bandages, and herbs more potent than they should have been naturally, but never an actual spell.

Most of all, she puzzled him because though she never openly used her magic, he had often seen her walk out into battle unarmed and unshielded, and pass through the fray where she should have been killed, or at least badly injured. Once, she dragged back a knight - a general - who had been ambushed and attacked by at least eight of the enemy's agents - bandits in the wood, but armed to the teeth with weapons better than any bandit should have had. They had fallen upon a small traveling force, appearing out of nowhere in the fogged forest, and while most had fled, she had gone back for their leader.

For all that her hands were often stained with the blood of the fallen, and the hem of her white robes was blackened with soot and dirt, somehow there was not a speck of red anywhere else on that white cloth. Magic permeated her entire being, and yet he had never seen an open sign of it. All he saw was a beautiful woman, who, in the darkest times of the war, remained pure and innocent as he had never believed anyone could be, even in a time of peace.

* * *

As the centuries ticked by, the mysterious woman in white on the battlefield was not always robed in white: sometimes the Healers chose a muted grey, sometimes a dusty blue. Morgana changed with the times, always standing out a little from the others, but always keeping as much to herself as possible. After all, for a Dragon, time passed differently: she lived life in centuries, never thinking much of death, but those around her knew that one day soon they would be gone. On the rare occasion that someone noticed her longevity, she might comment on the weather, and vanish inside a week. And in the brief periods of peace, though she traveled about seeking Merlin, seeking the other factions still at war, or in a tense standoff - where he would surely be - she met many whom she cherished, many whom she helped, and lost many whom she cared for.

A Dragon's heart, though it beats through centuries and not through decades, is not made callous by its age. For all that the War of Many Kings was somehow governed by her involvement and manipulation, her's and Merlin's, Morgana's heart ached as she thought of the all generations who knew almost nothing but the death and destruction. If only there had been a way to cut the three centuries to half of one, at least, or better yet, only a few years - if only, she thought. After all, these people were fighting a war on Dragons' timescale, and the Dragons were mostly extinct by now. But the Dragons had never fought in wars in their time, even if they sometimes tipped the balance to their advantage.

The weary traveler had a companion who followed her steadily through time, watching, marveling at her quiet existence. He followed at a safe distance, having learned the value of discretion and secrecy as it applied to lifespan, and not just magic. Magic was ever in and out of favour, tolerated or feared, venerated or persecuted. And Morgana knew if she were to risk switching sides whenever necessary, making no memorable enemies was of paramount importance. In all the years that ticked away, she had few true friends, and only one was her equal partner in the bloody manipulations that might someday being this world a little peace. If 'a little peace', in a Dragon's terms, stretched but half the time this war had spanned, the trade was not in vain.

Merlin met her on neutral ground: at sea, where few of the warring forces ventured. Once, the distant Kingdom of Agrabah had sent its ships to conquer the war-torn seaside nations. While they succeeded in establishing a slave trade, however, they failed in conquest, for Merlin had amassed a fleet of pirates who came to his aid and forced back the invaders. Since then, Merlin rarely left the seaside. Morgana guided the inland battles, and Merlin - _dissuaded_ \- outside forces, sometimes arranged trade agreements and negotiated alliances. He made a handsome pirate, Morgana often thought - cunning, a survivor who had weathered more storms than any other captain.

* * *

"You're not serious." She rather hoped he wasn't, but knowing Merlin, anything was possible.

"Sigan's fortress is the obvious target! Do you not see it? That place is held together by raw power, and it's clear to anyone he's preparing a large army to strike - he'll clear a path straight to the seaside. Sigan is a powerful magical foe, think of all the damage he can do just before breakfast, hiding in that impenetrable fortress."

Merlin sighed and rose from his table, walking over to Morgana, who stood looking out at the sea through the stern windows. "Whoever controls Camelot, controls the mainland," he told her quietly.

"No, believe me - this I understand," she replied with a sigh. "If only that were the trouble. They need a single leader they can all fall behind to challenge Sigan's army - and I mean only his non-magical force. The Mainland is a catastrophic sprawl of brawling factions, their only agenda is to control and defend their own little spit of land."

"Have you not found a candidate to unify them?" Merlin asked, knowing full well that Morgana certainly had someone in mind. She would have told him, of course, but she clearly had doubts. "What's the matter with him?"

Morgana was pale and cold, and her face was set with an expression of dark foreboding. "Uther Pendragon. A general, a powerful man, the younger son of a king who was murdered in his sleep, along with Uther's brother, and firstborn son," she said heavily. "Sigan was then merely an advisor to Uther's father in a minor kingdom. And he's built that little fiefdom into what Camelot is now. Uther, I imagine, still sees it as his birthright, and intends to avenge his slaughtered family, but another man's hard work is hardly heritable. This Pendragon is a powerful leader, his candidacy is promising, but I would not entrust the fate of this war to him. Not in a million years, Merlin - even if it took that long to find a better man, I wouldn't do it."

Merlin nodded. "I see. But I don't really think we have a choice. Tell me, what do you see of the future?"

Unexpectedly, she gave a bitter laugh. "Any road for Camelot that begins with Uther Pendragon, is a road that leads to darkness. And yet there is no one else."

"Then we have to take this chance," Merlin pressed.

"Tell me, Dread Pirate Roberts, when this war ends, will we be able to live with what we've done?"

"Morgana, if we are to be completely honest, this is not our war. Master Yen meddled with the order of things, unleashed a bloody torrent, and we've been bailing out the floodwaters."

She nodded. "That's true, but it is not a defense, and not an answer."

He watched her for a moment. "I'll take care of Uther. You should be able to find a way to neutralise Sigan's magical defenses. It won't be easy, but he's no Dragon."

* * *

"So this is it?" Merlin marveled at the fortress rising from the hillside, great and imperious with the forest at its flank and a moat surrounding it. "Sigan's Glory," he added, not particularly overawed, but certainly impressed.

Morgana smiled, then took her eyes from the ground and stopped dead in her tracks. "Uh - well. It's ablaze," she nearly choked on the words.

"I only see Dragon Magic, and very visible common magic," Merlin reminded her with a weary sigh.

"Wish you could see this," she replied quietly. Merlin glanced over at her, and found that she looked very much overawed. He held out his hand.

"Show me," he said.

She slipped her small hand into his, and suddenly the world revealed itself before him in quite another light. The mists that hung over the most were blue-tinged protection spells, the fortress was encased in nearly impenetrable defenses, but through all that you could still see the bare bones, the architecture of the city.

"There is a slight weakness on the forest side, an entrance into the tunnels that run beneath Camelot. All in all, not a good point of entry, it will lead you sooner to the water supply than into the citadel. It's a very long trek."

"You're sure we take the city?" Merlin, though he now was as aware of the Future as Morgana, sought some sort of confirmation.

"We do, with Uther at the head. But I hate walking into this blindly and on faith alone."

"I know that feeling, believe me. Maybe I can find someone who might be able to help. After all, the water supply is a weakness."

Morgana nodded. "I'll be in the city. It's the best way to let you in."

Merlin didn't quite approve of the idea, but said nothing. "Don't you want to meet Uther before you go?" She grimaced, much to his amusement, but did not protest.

* * *

Uther was yet a young man, but his face was stern. He was well-built, and had the carriage of a warrior through and through, but he was the son of a king, and his bearing never allowed you to forget that he was better than the other knights. On the battlefield he even fought better, with less regard for his well-being than a king should have been permitted to show.

"This is the person who will help us take the city?" he asked suspiciously of Merlin, giving Morgana a critical sweep of his eye. To him, she seemed beautiful enough to do anything, but she looked far too intelligent, cold, and dangerous to be truly considered a beauty. If she could but soften her features, he thought, they might not suspect her.

In the past few months they had conquered the towns that Camelot had sworn to protect, and Uther, a charismatic fellow and the son of their 'rightful king', was given a hero's welcome. But to bring the citadel to its knees, they needed something better.

Morgana laid out a detailed sketch of the tunnels beneath the city in Uther's tent. "There is a weakness, a possible entrance at the South here, towards the woods," she pointed it out to him.

"Yes, that leads to the water supply."

"Merlin says he may be able to find someone who will allow you to stop the water supply in Camelot for a few days," she told him calmly. "Otherwise, this entrance won't do you too much good. But there is a tunnel here, which leads up to the main gate. If you send a small force through there, they may be able to break open the main gate from the inside. However - it is likely that all the men in this group will be sent to their deaths," she warned.

Uther nodded. "But their sacrifice will not be in vain. What will you do from within the fortress?"

"Distract Sigan, I suppose. Weaken the defenses. There are ways to do that without magic, I assure you." Merlin glanced sharply at her, sensing a peculiar certainty in her manner that she should not, then, nor ever, reveal her magical ability to Uther. He dropped his eyes and made note of it.

* * *

Merlin breathed freely at last when Morgana left the encampment. The further away she was from Uther, the safer he felt they would all be. Those two shared a mutual distrust, and Merlin hated being in the middle of it. He quietly left the camp himself only an hour later, and slipped off into the night.

Deep in the forest, he found Lake Nostos shimmering quietly in the moonlight. He walked up to its banks cautiously, and crouched down, reaching out to brush its surface with his fingers.


	9. Sigan's Glory

Morgana stood in the highest tower or Camelot, looking down upon the raging skirmish in the outer streets. They'd gotten through the outer walls, at least, but their progress was painfully slow. She tensed, seeing somewhere traces of magic reinforcing armour of Uther's knights. Once she had believed that the pale purple bands of Merlin's magic could only be seen by another Dragon, but she had since met many a mage or witch who had learned to see magic in their own way. Cornelius Sigan was no exception: she had entered his city as a traveling healer, been permitted to pass through the gates because she had magic. She had been brought before him, she had impressed him, all while barely lifting a finger, and thus she had become his prisoner.

He didn't keep her in a cell or in a tower, but she never walked out into the city: though, on the one hand, the sick and the injured were brought to her, she was never given the opportunity to leave. Any time she found herself near the door, Sigan himself would appear beside her and he would begin to speak. There was magic woven into his voice and his words - he did not speak like others, his words were arranged with artful care and precision, as if he spoke poems in prose. Rhythm and intonation allowed him to weave power into his words, as the old Dragons had done. But where they had woven images and emotions into their words until that simply became a part of their collective magic, Sigan crafted a spell that relied on his charisma, and pulled the unwary listener under his influence. Morgana was not so easily captured, but she was not unswayed.

In truth, Sigan's magic, in a world that had long forgotten Dragons, was awe-inspiring. He had rediscovered many of the fundamentals on which her people had built their craft, and it was clear he sensed that she was far more powerful. Certain that Uther would attempt to kill him, Morgana agonised daily over the problem of how to save his life. Should she, in fact, attempt such a thing? He was not a good man by any measure. It may have been a weakness of a Dragon's nature, to allow great intelligence to excuse lesser evils, but even so, as Morgana came to know him, she could not say he was evil. Dark, perhaps, but not irretrievably immoral.

And while she was on the subject of morality - what right had a King to be moral? What right did she have, to claim that she herself was moral? To ensure an end to an endless war, she was prepared to sacrifice a beautiful city; a city that would attain peace and unity between magical and non-magical folk, but in all probability only for a few short years; a city that had to fall for the rest of the world to embrace the image of magic as something not to be feared or hated. Probabilities were useful things, but they didn't tell Morgana whether any number of her decisions would weigh her down with regret. In war, there is no right, she often reminded herself, but that did little to allay her consuming worry.

Sigan approached her in the dim light, slowly. She had sensed him the moment he set foot in her tower. "He's like you, isn't he?" he asked darkly, hovering in the shadowed doorway. "His magic is much like your own, Morgana."

"There are few of us left," she sighed.

"Then why would you destroy my city? There is so much magic here, and Uther will destroy it all."

Morgana shook her head grimly. "I do not seek to destroy you or your work, Sigan, yet either do I seek to recreate the civilisation I was born of. They made a terrible mistake, and you are about to follow in their folly."

"You're trying to protect me?" he asked, amused. "And what is my mistake?"

"You think that because these people have no magic, they are no threat to you. You turn away people at the gates if they have nothing to offer you, but you fail to understand that not all knowledge in this world is magical. There are poisons, weapons, tools beyond your imagining that they have even the potential to possess."

"Potential?" Sigan laughed outright. "That's a shade of a chance that they'll ever reach it."

"Maybe. But you'll find that all together, helped along by Magic, these men will take down your precious city. And I won't stand against them."

Sigan signed, and looked out at the raging battle bellow. "Morgana, there is so much locked away in that mind of yours, and so little you will share. But I'll tell you one of my secrets. Not much of a secret, as I suspect you may know it."

Morgana arched an eyebrow skeptically. "What's the value of a secret that I already know?"

"My trust, of course." She nodded, accepting the offer. "When Uther enters this city, he will kill me. I killed his father and his elder brother and took their kingdom. Camelot was a small holding with great potential, it needed a true leader, and I knew how to make it great. I sent a messenger to kill Uther, who was training to be a soldier then, but of course he failed. In the years that have passed, I have made Camelot into what it is now. What do you make of it, Morgana?"

She sighed heavily. "It is beautiful," Morgana admitted at last.

"Uther will take it. And he will burn it in his foolishness."

_I can help you escape_, she thought, _I can help you get away_. "He is a risk I have take."

"A risk? So you're playing a long-term game. Trust for trust, Morgana, what is your endgame?"

"Ah, a funny thing to ask a Seer. We don't have endgames, not that we know of."

"Liar. You just said, every Dragon you ever knew wanted to rebuild their lost city. You think my city is the perfect model, don't you? You're going to let them in, all those _ordinary_, non-magical, petty little people," he grimaced. "I wish I could stay to watch you fail."

Morgana shivered - he thought, with the cold. But she knew already that someday, Camelot would - indeed, must - fall. "Maybe someday. But today I'm not here on my own crusade. I am embroiled in a long play at an impossible dream, but I didn't set these events in motion. The truth is, I'm only seeing them through to prevent utter catastrophe. Someone meddled with Time and common sense, and now until we're through this war, I can't let things simply run their course. I've traded unmitigated disaster for lesser calamities, and now I can't say I know what's worse."

Sigan leaned back to get a good long look at her face, her lovely features drawn as if in pain and doubt. Trust for trust, a secret for a secret. Her heart was eating its way out of her, the way she hated watching innocent people die and hated this century-long conflict that should have fizzled out long ago.

Magic he could see, but unlike Morgana, he could not see the rest of the world with it. He had to close his eyes and look for it - he couldn't really explain how, it was almost as if he were looking with his nose. Every fibre of her being glowed with some strange light, something old and unreachable - for though she stood right before him, he was certain that if he reached out, his hand would grasp only air.

The same ghostly magic bound the armour of the attacking knights below, but she was not the one who had enacted it. She smelled of the sea, but below he sensed only the forest. The knights of Camelot were advancing quickly, even though their leader, Gorlois, had been cut down a very long time ago. Now with Uther making his entrance into the city, crying a war cry unlike any ever heard within Sigan's walls, he could tell the end was fast approaching.

"Well, I suppose, I should prepare to receive my guest," Sigan muttered, and withdrew.

* * *

Morgana flinched away as the sword came down upon Sigan's bared neck. A life for a life was all very well, but the life of one of the least stupid mages she had met in the span of centuries - she could hardly bear it. A Dragon would have screamed at the thought that all his accomplishments and discoveries, not held by Dragon Magic, had winked out of existence and dissolved into the ether upon his death.

Merlin grasped her elbow tightly and steered her out of sight. She had not yet managed to completely mask her dislike of Uther Pendragon, though they both knew that she had judged him sooner on what he would become than on what he was now. But she would argue that they already knew enough of his character to make such judgements.

"He sent Gorlois to head the initial attack - his closest friend - though he _knew_ that none of that force was likely to survive," she hissed, as Merlin quickly led her down the corridors. "He is holding a _feast_ in his honour, and within a fortnight _he is to marry the man's widow!_" she yelled in a choked whisper.

Merlin clapped a hand over her mouth sharply. "Easy, now. Quietly, Morgana - who knows who might be listening."

"Merlin, please," she stopped and pulled him behind a tapestry, into one of the hidden alcoves. "Remember I asked you, could we live with ourselves after this? Do you still think we can?"

Merlin sighed, as if utterly defeated. "We'll have to see, won't we? Come on, now, Morgana - he's not all bad. That's enough, anyway: I want to introduce you to someone, and it's better if we get there before the others."

He led her briskly to the throne room, and let them inside. There, a lovely dark-haired woman stood before the portraits that adorned the walls and examined the faces of long-dead Kings. Uther had them mounted on the walls again, after Sigan had been taken captive. It turned out he'd kept the paintings, out of respect for the family he had once betrayed.

"Morgana, this is Nimue. She helped us hold the citadel's water supply," Merlin said.

Nimue, a siren by the look of her, turned around sharply and smiled a disarming smile. Morgana bowed respectfully, a little wary of the hungry look in the girl's eye. It was measuring her, somehow.

"There's more to you than meets the eye," Nimue remarked casually.

Morgana gave a curt nod. "There is to everybody. I believe I owe you my thanks," she said, offering her hand.

Nimue shrugged with a small laugh and shook her head. "Merlin told me of the bright future of Albion, of a world where magical and non-magical folk walk hand in hand. You owe me no thanks, Lady Morgana, for we are all in this together, to achieve the same end. Look at these paintings," she continued, turning back to them. "Aren't they masterpieces?"

"Breathtaking," Morgana muttered, as she and Merlin exchanged sour glances.


	10. Little Dragons

The day was warm and golden, a gentle wind stirring the rich soft skirts of the forest, though the darker foliage just a little deeper hung immobile. The forest remained at least the slightest bit threatening even flooded with sun. And though the King and his Queen rode out into it to seek an escape from the rest of the world, the knights patrolled its edge always with a sense of bravado, no matter how they tried to quash it. The forest was old, older than they, and it made them uneasy. So many, though they were without magic, couldn't shake the feeling that they had offended the old Gods. Uther could say what he liked about Magic, but Gods were Gods, they could be cruel, but not unjust.

Nimue seemed to live there, which earned her the distrust of many a knight. There was something wrong about her smile, something unpleasant about her movements - strongly reminiscent of a snake in the grass. And even the Healer, perhaps the wisest and most gentle soul in Camelot, seemed to share in their apprehension: Morgana, always tending to the knights' injuries at tournaments and drills, more than once iced over at Nimue's approach. She stiffened at the sound of her voice, at the sight of her anywhere near Merlin or Ygraine. The Healer was very protective of their Queen, and for that the knights loved her only more.

* * *

Merlin stood in the morning sun, eyes closed, drinking in its warmth. Morgana had been away for a week, and though he was not as practiced in healing, he knew enough to handle the regular patients and the injuries the knights received in training. At present, he was avoiding Nimue, though of course he would have to see her at the King's council meeting. She was an avid student, which should have impressed and pleased him, but instead it troubled him immensely.

She learned too quickly for it not to be worrisome. Morgana had warned him long ago of what happened to Dragon children who tried complicated spells too soon, or too many within a short interval. Magical exhaustion was no laughing matter - having experienced it, Merlin could say that with certainty. It was, in a sense, a defense mechanism: a warning of what would come if you had no magic, if that part of you broke. You would feel smaller than you really were, shrunken and dry, as if only your skeleton had a right to be. And it befuddled the mind, leaving you tired and sluggish - and he saw none of that in Nimue, and she was no Dragon. It should have been more taxing for her.

He'd asked Morgana, but she only shook her head and answered cryptically: "The Guardians and Gods and Spirits are called that because they have more magic than most." Nimue was the Guardian of the Lake, but how that meant that she had more magic than even young Dragons, he could not understand.

Morgana, for her part, suspected it had more to do with the Lake itself. But she would not speak of what she did not know for certain, not where Magic was involved.

Someone appeared behind Merlin and stood for a moment, regarding the King's trusted advisor basking in the sun like a cat. Then the fellow cleared his throat unobtrusively. "The King has called a meeting of the Council, your presence is requested."

Merlin smiled at the sound of that voice: Gaius, Morgana's apprentice, once of the most put-upon page boys of Camelot, and now respected for being Morgana's right hand. "Thank you, I will join them soon, Gaius."

"The Lady Morgana's presence is also requested, but I cannot find her."

"Morgana would prefer not to be called 'Lady'," Merlin said with a sigh, turning to face the young man, "and has retired to her chambers for a midday rest. The King will have to excuse her."

"You'd like me to tell him that?" Gaius asked hesitantly.

Merlin laughed. "No, no - best he hear it from me, of course." But Morgana, as Merlin well knew, had retired to her chambers six days ago and not been seen since. Even he did not dare disturb her: she had said that she would call to him, but until then he must let her be. He'd been giving Gaius instructions for those six days - which prescriptions and tonics to distribute, which herbs to gather or dry. Indeed he was delighted with how smoothly the Healer's offices were carried out in her absence, and Morgana was sure to be impressed.

It had been the same way with Mariana, he recalled. Morgana had insisted on locking herself away, undisturbed for a few days, until Mariana was born. Presumably she was in her chambers, but in truth - who knew? Uther, of course, hadn't called many meetings then - or at least he had not insisted upon her presence. Since she'd taken over treating Ygraine after a long illness, though, he'd taken a greater interest in her council.

* * *

Merlin studied Uther's face as the King entered the council chambers and cast a dark look about him. He was, as usual, not in good humour. The uprisings at the border followed one after the other these days - perhaps exacerbated by the rumour that Ygraine's failing health had taken up the King's mind entirely. Even Morgana seemed convinced the illness was of a magical nature: too prolonged, with the magical interference too subtle to diagnose. But Morgana and Merlin had seen many a poisoned King or Emperor, and as reliable as their 'intuition' was, it came with experience no one else in this kingdom shared. They could not possibly voice their suspicions without being dismissed out of hand - at best. Far worse, they themselves would be suspected.

Uther turned sharply to his council, and swept a hawkish glare over all their faces, though it softened as he regarded Nimue.

"Where is the Lady Morgana?" he asked, with a strange quiet in his voice. "Merlin!"

Merlin rose slowly. "Sire?"

"Lady Nimue tells me your wife has not attended to the Queen in six days now."

"Indeed, Sire, the Lady Morgana has been unwell, and has sequestered herself in her chambers," Merlin readily explained. "Gaius and I have been tending to all her patients."

"I would have liked to be informed," the King barked sharply.

"I assure you, Sire," Merlin replied as clearly and evenly as before, "Morgana would not see any of her charges neglected. But she has not been well."

"And have you seen her in the last week, Lord Merlin?"

"No, Sire, I have not."

"Then how can we know anything of this? Guards!" The guards detached themselves from the walls where they'd stood frozen. "Search the Lady Morgana's rooms."

"Sire!" Merlin cried out in protest.

"Nothing is more important to me than my wife's health," Uther snarled. "If the Lady Morgana is indeed ill, she should have informed me of it!"

* * *

It was all Merlin could do to convince the guards to let him knock before they broke the door down. "Morgana," he called, tapping gently, "His Grace believes you guilty of a gross dereliction of your duties as Court Healer." He managed to keep his voice light, as if the very idea of the King coming to that conclusion were nonsense, and nothing for Morgana to worry about. Uther scowled behind him, less than pleased with the delivery.

There was a faint whispering on the other end of some sort of fabric stirring, and a voice weakly called - "A moment, I beg of you. Merlin, I was just about to send for you."

At that moment, as Uther stood glaring hotly at Merlin, who had turned with a helpless gesture, Ygraine appeared in the hall, floating gracefully through the swathes of morning sunlight. It played in her hair, it threw into sharp relief her coral lips and her grey-green eyes. Even in illness she had been beautiful, but now, as she made her recovery, she became less ghostly with every passing day. One still never quite shook the thought that she might be torn from the ground with a breath of wind and carried away, for she seemed unearthly. And the hold she had over Uther's mind was more powerful than any spell that could be cast to such an end.

"Uther, my love, what is the matter? Gaius tells me you ordered a search of Lady Morgana's rooms?"

Uther broke away instantly and hurried toward her, as if afraid she might fall, but Ygraine moved steadily and briskly - a true indication of how much she had improved since Morgana took over her treatment. "Darling! Should you be out of bed?" he said softly as he approached her, but Ygraine looked at him as if he were joking - and she didn't find it funny.

"I'm fine, dear," she replied with a faint edge. "If Morgana is ill, perhaps it is best to leave her be."

"Thank you, my Queen," they heard weakly over the sound of the door creaking open, "I assure you I am feeling much better." Merlin darted into the room immediately - they hadn't even seen Morgana, and quickly followed, drawn by curiosity.

Morgana sat perched on the chest at the foot of her bed, cradling a child in her arms. She looked weaker than they had ever seen her, but quietly happy. Merlin stood at her side, defensive, glaring at the royal couple intently. Uther turned a rather deep shade of beet red, but Ygraine had eyes only for the child.

"A boy or a girl?" she asked softly.

"Sebastian," Morgana replied, without looking up. "Would you like to hold him?"

Ygraine nodded, with contained excitement, and sat down beside her.

A hint of sadness came over the King as she took little Sebastian in her arms. He thought, perhaps, that no one was looking at him, but Merlin kept as sharp an eye on him as before, and Morgana didn't need eyes to see. She and Ygraine had grown rather close, and Morgana understood perfectly well the light that illuminated the Queen's face, and the bittersweet feeling that overcame her.

Somewhere in the hall, the patter of little feet sped in the direction of Morgana's door. Moments later, in a flurry of skirts and waving wild hair, Mariana tumbled through the door and past the King, right into Merlin's waiting arms. "Say 'good morning' to His Majesty," Merlin whispered with a smile. She turned, shyly nestling closer to her father, cast her eyes down and past Uther's left hand and whispered a greeting, much to his amusement. "And now - come meet your brother. Little Sebastian."

"Sabi," Morgana said with that same radiant smile. Merlin set the girl down on her feet on the chest between her mother and the Queen, and Ygraine turned so that Mariana could get a better look of the boy's sleeping face.

"He's beautiful," Ygraine whispered.

Uther could hardly stand the swelling of his heart within his chest. Ygraine would be a perfect mother. Indeed, he was rather beginning to think that all this was his fault. He had known, ever since he sent Gorlois to certain death at the battle for Camelot, that there would be a price to pay. But why must she be the one to pay it? Surely, there must be another way?

Somehow, he swore to himself, he would find it. There had to be a way.

* * *

Merlin turned to Morgana, who now sat with Sebastian in her arms once more, and Mariana at her side peered down at her sleeping brother's face.

"Really, you could have told Ygraine, at least," he muttered with an exhausted sigh.

"She knew," Morgana told him quietly. "I suspect she didn't tell Uther. I know, I know - I would have come out of this room in a week with a little boy in my arms, and everyone in Camelot would instantly know that the Court Healer had given birth to a healthy baby boy. But you never know, with these things. Imagine, for a moment, that it would have been safer for me to do this the old way, with the Dragon Egg - how in the name of sanity was I to explain that to the staff of nurses and Healers, and perhaps to the King himself? Magical births are tricky and unpredictable."

"And yet you insist on being alone for a full week," Merlin pointed out.

"Gaius needs you. And if Gaius needs you, Camelot needs you. I can take care of myself, I always have."

Merlin turned to the window and looked out at the courtyard below. "Uther is beginning to worry me. He's never been so quick to see the worst in people."

"Nimue worries me more. Who knows what she said to him."

"True enough. What is it about that witch? There's something distinctly wrong about her."

"Attractive, isn't she?" Morgana noted with a slight smile.

Merlin turned to her, surprised, wondering where this idea was headed. "Oh?"

"Well, think about it. An attractive woman, whispering traitorous words over the ear of a King - such a power," she shrugged.

"Uther will always be true to Ygraine," Merlin pronounced with certainty.

"Yes," Morgana sighed, "but Ygraine has been very ill for very long, and may never be able to give him an heir to the throne."

"Morgan -"

She cut him off sharply, repeating with emphasis: "Ygraine has been very ill, and for very long." She eyed her husband across the room with a dark sadness upon her brow. "Tell me I'm seeing things. Tell me it's not that suspicious. Please, Merlin, even if you have to lie, just tell me that."

He would not say it, and cast his eyes down at his feet. "Sabi, it's a Dragon Name. What does it mean?"

Morgana's expression cleared and she turned her attention back to their newborn son. "We'll see," she whispered.

* * *

That day, as Uther completed his apology to the Lady Morgana and to Merlin, he withdrew in a fouler mood than ever. He was accosted in the hall by Nimue, who had been looking for him since the council meeting had so abruptly ended. "There will be no meeting of the council today, then, Sire?" she asked him, having curtsied quickly to dispel the obvious impropriety of so boldly addressing a King in the halls.

"No, I rather think not," he replied, and would have pressed on his way, but that she put out a hand and gently tapped his arm above the elbow.

"Forgive me, Sire, but I feel that I understand what troubles you. And perhaps I may know of a way to help you."

He should have gone on his way, he should have ignored her - something was very wrong about this, about the woman herself. Morgana's reaction to her should have been enough to warn him, as much as the Healer distrusted the King himself. But this strange woman's careful, most concerned report of Morgana's three-day absence hadn't failed to impress him with its artifice.

And yet he could not help himself. He stopped in his tracks and listened.

* * *

**AN: **

_Someone tell me, is this close enough to MerlinBBC/AU territory to make it a crossover story? More on that in the next chapter. _

_Also, I now have a tumblr - sanerontheinside (. tumblr . com)__! I may occasionally post updates and excerpts and fan-theories, and other funny things I do. _


	11. O Woeful Day

"Morgana, this is none of your concern!"

"I will beg you, Sire, not to tell me that my patient's fate is none of my concern!" Morgana thundered behind him. A cloud passed over the sun, and the room darkened and greyed for a moment, as Uther stopped and turned to the woman who dared defy him.

"Healer, be silent!" he snarled. "None of your herbs or potions could possibly help her -"

"So you've given up hope?"

"No, I have found another, better way. A way that will work, and - to say nothing of your abilities, Morgana - one that I have complete faith in." Uther turned his back on the Court Healer again and made his way quickly out of her quarters, but she would not have it.

"You speak of magic, do you not?" Morgana called after him.

He stopped again, getting annoyed at the incredible accuracy with which she continuously guessed thoughts and plots and secrets. At one time or another he had believed that someone on his council had a loose tongue. He even suspected Merlin in being overly communicative with his wife, but now he was beginning to suspect that there was more to her than met the eye.

"And you would advise me against it?" he asked waspishly, turning to the quiet figure that stood leaning casually against the a doorway.

She shrugged, detaching herself from the wall and walking forward unceremoniously. "Sire, I wish to voice my objections for posterity, as it were. It's clear enough you'll not heed them. I simply want the satisfaction of saying _I told you so_."

"So voice your objections, Lady Morgana, I will be most interested to hear them," Uther said with a forced smile, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at the imperious lady.

They hadn't placed her properly in this kingdom, he now thought - a commoner who looked entirely uncommon, who had the bearing of royalty - or nobility at least - but the careful quietude and restraint of some manipulative dignitary behind the throne. But when she spoke to him, she dared treat him as an equal - not elevating herself to royalty, but demeaning his position to match her own. He now realised, he had probably opened the door to this kind of blatant disrespect by attempting to match wits with the Court Healer.

Yet she could be respectful when she wished.

"Sire, the Queen is on the mend, I assure you. Her illness was long and taxing, but given a few more months she may make a full recovery."

"_May_ make a full recovery - these are not promises or guarantees, Healer."

"But I can promise and I can guarantee that Magic always has a price," she continued. "Creating a life is a dangerous and complicated task, and it often requires another life in return. You do not know whose life and whose potential you may be sacrificing," she warned. "Moreover, in her current condition, bearing a child may be extremely dangerous. I will do everything in my power to help her, Sire, but there are limits to what I can achieve."

"I will take that under advisement," Uther told her, but his expression changed to something more grave. "Thank you, Morgana," he said, more softly.

Morgana watched him withdraw and felt her heart tearing at her. She couldn't bear it - she turned to the window, waving her hand to form a circle of silence about her, and screamed. Morgana cursed her luck, cursed her old and beloved teacher, cursed the man who had changed him into the Dark One, cursed the very strings of Fate that she was forced to police now, lest the world fall into its Dark Times again. The times of no learning, no magic, constant war and poverty everywhere. And then, breathing heavily, she closed her eyes and leaned against the window sill, her face in the noonday sun.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to so many people.

How can you watch fate unfold, watch the possibility of so much death slowly turn into reality, and - knowing that - not try to stop it? How can you still hang your hope on the last second, the instant where a man might make a completely different decision, though the likelihood of that change is so terribly small?

Merlin appeared behind her, as though out of thin air. They both tried to avoid using magic in Camelot, and succeeded entirely in keeping their secret. But they always seemed to carry a little magic with them, walking more softly than should have been possible, appearing suddenly and vanishing as though they had melted.

"Feeling guilty again?" he asked, smiling sadly.

Morgana shook her head. "What are we doing? When we could prevent disaster - what's stopping us?"

"You tell me," Merlin sighed. "Remember," he said, resting his chin on her shoulder as he held her, "I can't see what you see. I saw a prophecy, but not the possible alternatives. Whatever disaster you see, I cannot imagine it."

Morgana tensed a little. "Should I show you?"

"You think I'd rather not know?" Merlin laughed half-heartedly. "I don't even know what I'm trying to prevent, but just like you, I see evil that can - and in a perfect world, should - be stopped."

She held out her hand to him, and as he took it, the world around him changed. The future unfolded, and with every instant's passing he saw three or four, sometimes more possibilities for the next event. A spell of dizziness from the sudden change in perspective forced him to close his eyes, and as he stepped back from Morgana to get his bearings, one hand still on her shoulder, he simultaneously stepped back from the events and saw a far wider view.

He could see the whole world around him, and everything string of possible futures unwinding at his feet, but so many strands ended in darkness before reaching the horizon. He could see, apart from one path, that most ended very quickly, in plagues and terrible wars, and even the dead seemed to walk the Earth. But even that one bright strand seemed short. As he tried to look closer at the dark ends, Morgana pulled her hand away gently.

"Don't look there, Merlin. I don't want you seeing my death."

He stared at her. "That's not very fair of you, is it?"

"Don't ask me for that, please. Anything but that."

He nodded, and turned to leave. "Don't feel so bad about Uther's decisions. Think of it as having an all-too-perfect judgement of his character. And who knows, for that one chance in a million, perhaps, he may yet change his mind."

The moment she heard his steps fade down the hall, Morgana released the breath she'd forgotten she was holding. She couldn't see her own death. As near as it was, the events about it remained cloudy, and she rather suspected this was a defense mechanism of sorts. But Merlin's death -

In every case but one, it would precede hers, by months or mere days. And to her it was crystal clear.

* * *

Uther sat at Ygraine's bedside, not wanting to wake her. Morgana's treatments were far less exhausting than those prescribed by many learned medics from every corner of the realm, and they seemed to be working: Ygraine looked, not just better, but fresher and younger, lighter on her feet. She slept more deeply, but not longer.

"Ygraine," he whispered, gently touching her shoulder. "Ygraine, it's morning."

She stirred and turned to him, curling around his hand like a kitten, but did not open her eyes. "In a minute," she murmured.

He smiled, but nudged her insistently. "I have to ask you something."

"What is it?" she whispered.

"I may have found a way," he began, but found the words trapped in his throat.

"Found a way," she echoed, finally opening her eyes to look at him. "Uther?" She'd guessed it, he could tell.

"Ygraine, there may be a way for us to have a child," he said, trying to keep the hope and joy in his voice quiet as he saw her face light up. She sat up quickly, then froze, lips parted, watching him struggle with the weight of what he hadn't yet said.

"But?"

"Morgana will help regardless of your decision, but she warns that with Magic, the risks are -" he faltered. "I couldn't lose you, Ygraine," he said after a moment.

"But it is my choice, isn't it?"

Uther took a breath. "Of course. Speak to Lady Nimue, she will tell you what she told me. And then speak to Morgana."

"Uther, look at me." Golden haired, with her grey-green eyes open wide, lips parted - in the morning sunlight, she looked more beautiful than ever. "We've always wanted to have a child. Whatever it takes, I'll do it. I'll be a good patient, I promise," she smiled.

* * *

Morgana bustled and fretted about Ygraine silently, mixing a potion, cutting up roots, grinding something down to a fine powder - and she seemed to want to do it all at once. Her hands were never idle, and yet it seemed as though nothing had changed in the span of five minutes. Ygraine watched her with interest before reaching out and tugging at her skirt gently. "Morgana," she said, "relax." Morgana sighed breezily, and stopped moving altogether, eyes closed, face in the sunlight streaming from her windows.

She'd actually requested a room with great big windows, with as much light as possible, and when she'd been told that it would get cold, she replied that the cold was her own affair. Indeed, she seemed to have a peculiar resistance to it. For those months, she directed her patients to another room.

"Morgana, I've always wanted to have a child," Ygraine said. The Healer shook her head.

"You will have a child, Ygraine, but how long will he have you?" Morgana remarked quietly. "I don't like this woman, Nimue. She's meddling with powers she does not understand."

"Who are we to question what she knows of magic?" Ygraine shrugged.

"There is magic, and there is experience. What little she knows of magic hardly replaces her experience with healing, as anyone will tell you," Morgana replied, her voice strained. It was so difficult to keep the edge of anger and desperation out of it. "But, as you say, my Queen: it is your choice."

Ygraine's expression darkened, her brows knitted in a way Morgana couldn't help but find most endearing. "You're quite right, Morgana, it is my choice. I bore Gorlois a daughter, and there was nothing more wonderful in my life than raising a child. I am Uther's Queen, and it is my duty to give Camelot an heir, but it is also my final wish to make Uther happy. He's always wanted a son," she added, a wistful look in her eyes.

"Well you won't die if I can help it," Morgana snapped, but hollowly. "I only wish I could say that I can."

"Never mind that, Morgana. Promise me you'll look after my son?"

"That much, I can give you my word on."

* * *

That fateful day was etched forever into Morgana's memory. It had begun peacefully enough, with a quiet breakfast between herself, Merlin, and their two children. Mariana and Sebastian cast darting looks about the room, wondering what bookshelf to attack next. Gaius had burst through their doors in a breathless rush to tell them that his sister, Hunith, was here in Camelot. That sounded quite wrong.

Merlin was the first to speak, as Morgana turned, confused, to face her apprentice. "Here, in Camelot?" he repeated carefully. "Gaius, I thought she was due soon?"

"Any day, Sir."

"Don't 'Sir' me, I'm no knight," he muttered as an afterthought, as his brain continued to sluggishly compute what he'd just heard. "She traveled all this way, days before she was due to give birth?"

"She says she's been in pain, Merlin. Not serious pain, but it felt wrong, somehow," Gaius explained hurriedly. Morgana rose instantly, but was cut off by a scuffle in the hall that sent Gaius reeling into the Healer's chambers. Uther bolted into the room, red-faced and breathless.

"It's Ygraine," he panted, "she's -"

Morgana staggered back a little. "Oh dear," she muttered.

Merlin clasped her hand behind her, catching her attention. "I'll tend to Hunith. I'd say Gaius and I have learned enough from you to make you proud," he assured her quietly, but the worry etched deep into her features was not abated.

"Merlin," she hissed in a frantic whisper, "be careful what you do - both of you! Gaius is not a powerful practitioner, but you are, and I know you'll both do anything to save her. Please don't do anything stupid - you know what happens today."

"We still don't know that it will happen," he reminded her in an undertone.

Morgana marveled at him: here was the one person in the world who could fool a Seer into hoping - hoping to the very last - that disaster may yet be averted. She bent down and kissed him, caught up in an oceanic swell of gratitude. "Be careful, love," she whispered, then turned to Uther and barked authoritatively, "Take me to her chambers!"

Only a Healer had such power over Kings.

But on this day, the Healer had little other power. For a long time, it seemed as though nothing was wrong, but that was what worried Morgana far more. A complicated birth, she had expected - what with Ygraine's long illness, what with the fact that it had left her weakened. She tried to dispel her foreboding, as if thinking such thoughts could only speed ill fortune. But the moment they let in a rather haggard Uther, the moment he took the crying boy in his arms and looked down at him, as fathers do, with that devoted light emanating from him, Ygraine closed her eyes. Morgana started from her seat, sensing acutely that the Queen was slipping away.

She froze, hovering halfway up from that chair, and threw a look across the room at the King of Camelot. Uther's eyes, full of fear, locked on Morgana's, begging her to do something, but even as she sprang into action she knew the cause was long lost. Uther fell back into a seat near the door and watched transfixed, not even allowing one of the nurses to take the boy from him, not until, just for a moment, Ygraine's eyes fluttered open again. She looked at him sadly, as if she wanted to say something, then fell back weakly.

Morgana stood still as a statue, staring helplessly at the motionless form of the most lovely, kind and gentle woman she'd ever known. She knew exactly what Ygraine had wanted to say, and had not had the chance: _I knew the price, my dearest love. Please, blame only me for my own choice. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I will love you always_.

Aloud, the Healer said hollowly, "Long live the Queen," as she gently laid Ygraine's hand, delicate as death, to rest on the covers.

The nurse at last took the boy from the King's arms. There was a most unnatural silence in the room now, for even baby Arthur had gone quiet. The nurse, at a motion from Morgana, quickly withdrew. The Healer stood watching the King so intently, waiting for whatever came next, that she quite missed the moment Nimue entered the room - mistake she would never forgive herself.

Uther held his head in his arms, rocking back and forth as he sat. Morgana had yet to see just who would catch the blame, the full force of his grief, but the choices were narrow. The moment Nimue put a comforting hand on his shoulder, her fate was sealed.

"Your Grace," she whispered -

He began to slowly draw away, then more quickly, realising whose hand had touched him. When, still seated, he'd leaned back as far as possible from Nimue, he looked at her with an indescribable slew of emotions writ over his features, somewhere between disgust, hate, betrayal, utter desolation, and pain. And then he screamed - a heart-rending cry that chilled the blood in Morgana's body, the kind of war-cry that soldiers unleash when headed to certain death. He leapt from his seat and ran out into the halls, where he caught his breath again.

"Gaius!" he called, catching sight of the young man down the hall, reeling from exhaustion. He waved him over - just the person he needed. "Gaius, you practice magic, do you not?" The boy nodded. "I need a list of all the practitioners in Camelot."

Confused, Gaius nodded. "Yes, Sire," he mumbled, and sped off.

* * *

Nimue's lair was underwhelming, to say the least. It was Camelot's reservoir, which in itself disturbed Morgana - _just imagine_, she thought with a cold shudder,_ a drop of poison to end the city in a single day_. She wouldn't put anything past Nimue now.

Nimue had left the place in a hurry, Morgana observed, as she began to put up a magical barrier at the entrance. Silvery tendrils crawled from the archway through which the water came, knotting themselves together and weaving into a thick net. If Nimue thought to poison Camelot now, she would not be able to enter the reservoir.

Morgana let the net do its work as she examined the edges of the pool - so black in this dark, it might as well have been the Blackwater Lake. Something about this place was ill-fated, as if it were the true Heart of Camelot, and thereby its greatest weakness. But perhaps it only seemed so to a Water Elemental. Morgana sighed and stepped around to a broken pedestal, which had most likely held a scrying basin. The basin was gone, but her foot came into contact with something light at the base of that pedestal that rolled gently away at the contact. She reached out and caught it with her magic, raised her hand up before her - and paled considerably.

That double-ended candle, she'd seen it before. The old stories of how it had been made by Master Yen, when he was overcome with Darkness, to save his beloved by sacrificing the life of her killer - why, she herself had been a part of them. She had aided him with the creation of this vile thing, this - _perversion_ of Magic. Even now, as she held it over her hand, she did not dare touch it, but let it float unlit in the dark.

In those days, she had helped create it in the name of defeating a great evil. But now she wondered just how far askew she and Merlin had wandered of Good, of Heroism, of Reason itself. Life had taught the surviving Dragons to be cynical of Good and of Heroism: it was so easy to get caught up in doing the right thing, damn the consequences, until you found yourself caught in a trap by that very set of mind. Heroes and Do-Gooders were so easily taken advantage of. Reason, however, would triumph, even if it led you into the Dark, because Reason would also lead you out. Doing the right thing could hurt people - people you didn't want to hurt, sometimes, so very many people you didn't even know.

Reason dictated that it was better to play a long game of strategy and lose ten to save thousands, than to blindly blunder into a trap that killed those very thousands.

The more she lived with that kind of decision, facing it every day, the more Morgana felt that what she had done in the name of some long, manipulative game that could save millions, was anything but Good. And what of Reason? What Reason was there in watching people die, unable to save them not because she didn't know how, but because she knew what would happen if they lived?

Watching people die took its toll on her, both as a Dragon and as a Healer. Watching Ygraine die had nearly torn her heart to shreds. Hearing Uther's cry of grief had sent it pounding against her ribs in fear of the coming of the dark. Watching him flinch away from Nimue as she tried to comfort him, first slowly, then in earnest disgust - Morgana's heart had stopped for a moment. But as she eyed this candle, this abomination that should never have existed, she recognised the very foundations of the Magic that had taken Ygraine's life in place of her child's.

Ice now filled her, the cold crackled in the air about her. This wasn't the same gift of snow and cold that her sister Anika had been born with one desert night. It was regret, though Morgana couldn't quite be sure what she regretted most. Although, on second thought, it wasn't so hard to place after all: she regretted being played for a fool by her Master, the teacher she'd respected and loved. She regretted letting him pull slowly her into Darkness, inveigle her into helping him unravel Magic that should have stayed well out of a fool's hands.

Master Yen had been a fool to think he could control such unruly Magic. But if Master Yen, the greatest, wisest, and most respected Dragon left alive after the collapse of his civilisation, had been a fool - who in this world could even remotely measure up to him? What, on that scale, was Nimue?

For the first time in her life, Morgana thought bitterly that the Dragons had learned and discovered too much. That, now that their world had been destroyed, but fragments of their magic persisted, these very fragments were potent poison in the world. They were harmless in the hands of their creators, but wrought horror in the hands of those who did not know enough about their fundamental structure.

Many years ago, upon learning that the Dragon City was gone, wiped clean off the map, her father had said:

"So it's gone. Our way of life, our history, irrevocably lost and scattered throughout the world. But life goes on - it doesn't all turn on the Dragons' existence anymore. Consider, for a moment, how arrogant we all were, to think that we had the power to decide to withhold our knowledge from the outsiders. That was unbelievably foolish, for a race that prided itself, above all, on its wisdom. I'd say the world's better off without us running the show."

And here she was now, centuries later, still very much running the show. She and Merlin did it from the shadows now, aware of the costs for every misstep, the alternatives for every single event. Well - she had known all the alternatives. Merlin had been less fortunate; he knew only the cost - step awry, and you lose one bright, bittersweet future.

"Is this the price, Minevar?" Morgana muttered, staring fixedly at the candle. The Minevar had given her the gift of seeing the future and named her his heir, but was this the price he had lived with? And he had lived far longer than Morgana, according to the legends. What was it about legends, that, if ever they mentioned a Dragon, they proved unsettlingly close to truth? She shuddered to think of the weight of his regret.

She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the candle vanish, and listened. She listened to the screams of those whose whole lives now burned in what would be called the Great Purge. She heard the pattering of feet of those who had managed to escape, heard the strangled cries of the ones who were cut down at the gate by the guards' swords.

And somewhere in this wretched scene, somewhere not far from here, Nimue stood watching, a cold fury in her eyes.


	12. The Ghost of Cornelius Sigan

The more Morgana stared at the candle in her hand and wondered how her life had so unpleasantly come back to haunt her in a single night, the less sense it made. Nimue happening upon the candle, by chance? Or even calling it up from the Lake - impossible. If it was in this world at all - and she was sure it should have been, still, where she hid it - then Nimue could not have summoned it herself.

Besides, what real use was the candle to her? It couldn't give her a means to help a barren woman bear a child. It only held the foundation for magic that effectively switched the place of a dying person and a sacrifice.

But how had Nimue found it? Morgana had hidden it so well, or so she'd thought. She knew she'd hidden it, and obliterated the very memory of where and when. The further she walked into the caverns, searching for other signs of Nimue's magic, the more she wondered just what she was going to find down here.

* * *

Before she met the Pendragon, before the taking of Camelot, whenever the wars reached a lull, whenever Morgana was not looking for Merlin halfway across the world, she retreated to her library. Here she and Rumpelstiltskin often crossed paths, as her library had no equal in all the world. One such day, she walked right past the door, beckoned to him to follow her, and led him to a larger library chamber with a fireplace and great big windows from the floor to the ceiling, with a terrace outside. It was still hopelessly confusing, walking through the tower and ending up on two different levels without ever taking the stairs.

He'd never been in this chamber before. It was much like the rest of the Library Tower, done in pale, sometimes pinkish, grey stone. By the fireplace there were two armchairs, and the small table was laden with a tea set and wine glasses and fruit - and a number of unidentifiable, exotic things.

"I've been to Agrabah recently," Morgana explained. "I thought you could use a walk, maybe some tea."

"What do you want?" he asked warily.

"What can you tell me about Sigan?" Morgana asked, settling down into an armchair snugly.

Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. "Cornelius Sigan - you're trying to take his city from him? You should know, he killed a king to get it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" she sighed, shaking her head grimly. "People see some strange value in that land that I do not."

"That's because to you, Magic is no rare thing. All of your people were born with it, and you lived in a magical city on a cloud," he teased, much to her amusement.

"Jealous?"

"Anyone would be, if they knew. Sigan was born with a gift of his own, but you should bear in mind that if there is magic in the land, or in the foundations of a castle, that would only serve to strengthen his."

Morgana shrugged and waved away the matter dismissively. "Honestly, Rumple, there's magic in every castle, even those not built by sorcerers."

"Well, if you know how to find it - if there are those around who know to believe in it - perhaps there is."

"Ah. Very well, then. What strategic importance is there to Camelot besides?"

"He who possesses the city is in close proximity to the Lake of Lost Things, and has a clear path ahead to the sea. Is that not enough?"

"Fair. Sigan's magic, is it powerful?"

Rumpelstiltskin threw a leg carelessly over his knee, and let his head fall back. "Over the years, increasingly so. He has studied with some of the best, and his library - well, it's not as big as yours."

"But you've found some of the same books, haven't you?"

"I have indeed. And his apothecary - so well-stocked! Dragons' blood and alicorn, mermaid tears and scales and hair - he is even rumoured to have a small amount of squid ink. Rumoured only - I've checked."

"You've checked?" Morgana echoed in disbelief. "What on this green Earth would you need squid ink for, there's plenty you can do with materials that aren't quite so hard to come by."

"Yes, but squid ink is quite intuitive, you'll agree."

"Well if you need to idiot-proof a spell, I suppose," she conceded. "So what else is he rumoured to have that, in fact, he has nothing of?"

"An open mind," he suggested. "Just think, he only lets magical folk into his city. Not only that, but they must have something new to offer him, something that intrigues him - which isn't hard to come by, witches flock to his capitol from all over the world. But if you have no magic, you are welcome to the lands of Camelot - just not to its citadel."

"So he has no care for public opinion," Morgana mused.

"They don't hate him. He has erected certain defenses around the border. Nothing you can't handle, however."

"How kind," Morgana grinned.

"Now," Rumpelstiltskin said, rising from his seat, "what is this information worth to you?"

Morgana snickered, with a wily grin, and asked, "A bottle of squid ink?"

"No, not yet." Rumpelstiltskin suddenly turned quite serious. "Tell me, how do you see the future?"

Morgana stirred in her seat and set aside her glass of wine. "I see every possible future, Rumple."

"Isn't that a bit cumbersome?"

She laughed, as if a great weight had been released from her. "Oh, terribly! It's far too much information."

"So then how can you tell which possible future will become a reality? Cause and effect?"

"No, there isn't necessarily causality. That only takes practice, this takes seeing. Let me give you an example," she said, as she rose and walked out onto the terrace, beckoning him to follow.

"Here: this is going to take a minute." She paused thoughtfully and scanned the treetops across from her. "Ah - that tree there," she waved her hand behind her at a large old pine and continued in a quick patter of speech: "In a little less than a minute from now a pine cone may or may not fall from that tree. If it does, then you shall see a carrier pigeon fly out of it. It may fly either to the north or to the northeast. If it flies to the north, it is bearing a message of little consequence - correspondence between two royal sisters. For another twenty years after it delivers the letter, there will be peace and prosperity in the region, but at the end there will be a terrible blight on the crops.

"Or, the pigeon will fly to the northeast, a message from a spy to his kingdom. If it reaches its destination, there will be a terrible row and scandal, and war will rage for the next five years, and it will end when a terrible blight attacks the crops - you see, after five years, now, not twenty. However, the pigeon may or may not be intercepted by a hawk. If it is, negotiations between kingdoms will drag on for another twelve months, they shall come to an uneasy peace, and thereafter for fifty years no wars, no blights, but a steady increase in taxes for all three kingdoms, until finally one revolts - and the others fall thereafter - as a pebble starts avalanche.

"Or, no pinecone falls, and the pigeon flies, and the hawk intercepts it, and the sister never gets her letter, and the spy is caught but escapes home to his family before anyone can ascertain his true allegiance, and no war occurs and the two kingdoms settle their differences within two months. And four months after that, the mad scientist in the dungeons of the northeast kingdom, unjustly imprisoned for a murder he did not commit, discovers a cure for the blight, chalks it on the wall, and a guard copies it down faithfully and takes it to his fool of a son, who makes a bleeding fortune passing off the cure as his own discovery and reveals his true nature as a miser, because hereunto he has had nothing to be miserly about. No point in worrying too much about the blight, either, because it was discovered in the Royal Garden, whence it would have spread only in another thirty years - but we can't prevent people making a bleeding fortune out of it either."

Rumpelstiltskin stared, first at the tree, then at her. "That's - quite detailed."

She chuckled. "But you know, every step forward in time gives you a better view of what happens in four steps, and yet there are these little events of exceptionally low probability that come out of bloody nowhere and steal the day, sometimes precipitating a disaster, sometimes preventing it."

* * *

Nearly twenty years has passed since the purge, and Camelot, apart from the occasional sentencing and burning of a suspected witch, remained at peace. Through this time, Morgana and Merlin had raised their two children nearly alongside the young prince, whose education had been put almost entirely in Merlin's charge. Arthur was shaping up to be a skilled diplomat, as the two Dragons made certain that he was well read, and not just in political literature. And though Uther's paranoia preëmpted even the possibility of a conversation about Magic, Morgana saw to it that the young prince read about the more recent scientific or medical discoveries. To a Dragon, of course, these breakthroughs were sometimes a mere rediscovery of the wheel. In these days there was legitimate research born of bizarre places like alchemy and astrology. Every now and then a spark of light burst to life in the dark, and those she snagged and passed to Arthur.

Merlin took over the subjects Morgana found abysmally boring: she had a deeply ingrained aversion to diplomacy and battle strategy. He even poked fun at her for it. After all, she had toyed with politics for centuries now. And _she_ had been the one to give Uther the keys to Camelot - she knew more about battle strategy than the King himself. But Morgana preferred mathematics and herbology.

Her interest was not the only determinant in what she taught: she loved to tell stories, and she could have been the best historian the realm had ever seen, but for the fact that her view was remarkably ill-aligned with prevailing (and politically acceptable) thought. She wasn't incapable of recounting history the way Uther would have liked, or the way people wanted to hear it. But having actually lived through the events, she often forgot which view was in vogue.

Arthur had never seen the sea, and yet he knew all about ships and navigation. Here, Merlin participated just as much as Morgana. Morgana's lessons in mathematics and geometry were extensive and rigorous, and accepted as a necessity, but her lectures on the uses of herbs were less well received.

That is, until the morning she sat down, burying her face in her hands, for a long moment, then looked up at Arthur with a long-suffering sigh and said, "Here's an idea, why don't you go ask your father if I might accompany you on the next hunt."

The boy was slightly dejected at that. The only time he ever got to spend with his father was when they were out hunting, or when his father was teaching him to fight. The King, too, was at first unwilling. But the next Royal Hunt was runaway success - Morgana proved a better tracker than the King and all his knights put together. She treated minor scrapes and bruises, pointed out which herbs attracted which beasts, and could tell more from a bent blade of grass than Uther from a spot of upturned mud.

Nor was this the only trick she pulled, when it came to Arthur's lessons: by the time he began fighting in tourneys, he knew enough about various injuries to provide immediate assistance to a fallen comrade. Morgana looked on, beaming with pride, even as she coached every movement sharply. Eventually, she stopped her coaching altogether. She rarely curtsied, but at the moment that Arthur, having bandaged a ragged wound quickly and neatly, turned to her, wondering why she hadn't said a word, she bowed her head paid full respect to the future king.

* * *

The day they discovered that the tunnels beneath the city were full of unexplored caverns, Morgana began to worry. Camelot had been built upon a foundation of magic, and the underground was no place for games. Sigan, as she recalled, was just the sort to lay traps. Her warnings fell on deaf ears however, and then she began to worry in earnest.

On the third evening of the tireless digging below, Merlin was summoned to the site of the latest discovery. Morgana trailed along - in case of injuries, she said.

When the reached the crew, they found them in a fairly unremarkable pocket of the tunnels. "What have you found?" Merlin asked, confused.

One silently pointed to the wall beside him, where, they now noticed, a brick had been removed. Merlin peered into the dark, then took the torch from the man and worked it through, noting, as he did so, the unmistakable glimmer of gold in firelight. He exchanged glances with Morgana.

"Well, Uther will certainly want to see that," he muttered. He drew the torch out again.

"Good air circulation," Morgana remarked, bending down for a closer look at the wall itself. "The torch burns as brightly in the room as outside. A tomb, perhaps?"

"Why don't we take down the wall and see for ourselves?" a commanding voice behind them suggested. Morgana rose from a crouch with a quiet hissing intake of breath - Uther, of course, had not been far behind.

"Well, if you don't mind disturbing the dead," she remarked acidly.

"What use are riches to dead men?" Uther shrugged. "Unless, of course, you believe in ghosts, Lady Morgana."

She turned to him, her expression set blank, pale in the firelight. "There is much in this world that even science has yet to grasp, Sire. I've never excluded the possibility."

Uther seemed amused by her reaction, but turned the conversation back to less ambiguous things. "If it is indeed a tomb, it is likely a tomb of my forefathers. Rest assured, I'm not inclined to steal from them, but they were never the sort to be buried among their treasures anyway. I can think of one or two who would have done, but it was a small kingdom - not exactly flowing with gold. Take it down," he said, waving imperiously at the wall.

Morgana and Merlin exchanged glances with the men. As Merlin moved to follow the King out, Morgana quietly offered them a warning.

"We don't know whose tomb it may be. Imagine Sigan buried his beloved here. Proceed with utmost caution. Expect traps of some kind, possibly magical in nature."

"Then how do we avoid them?" one of the men asked, reasonably.

"Don't step inside, at the very least," Morgana replied instantly. "The most common traps laid in tombs are usually trick floors: either they give way to a pit, or set off an arrow-firing mechanism of some sort. It might be best to keep your heads down, in case some of that stone rolls inside rather than out. Be careful. And don't let the gold or precious stones tempt you."

* * *

Later that night, Morgana stood staring into the tomb, arms crossed, brooding. One of the men had been dead by the time she got there. Just as she'd warned, an arrow had appeared out of nowhere and that had been the end of him. Magic had unerring aim.

Uther had been astonished to discover that the tomb indeed belonged to Cornelius Sigan. There was no body in the sarcophagus, presumably - no one had dared enter after the death of one of the diggers. Temptation was a force of nature, apparently.

Merlin appeared beside her silently.

"It doesn't make much sense, does it?" she said quietly. "Sigan had a tomb prepared for himself ahead of time, expecting to die peacefully. But it was stocked with riches and sealed in."

"So what's really in it?" Merlin asked.

"I came down here when the Purge began, tracking Nimue. She had this -" Morgana's hand sliced the air, palm upward, revealing the double-ended candle.

Merlin sighed. "Let me guess: she used it to form the spell that took Ygraine's life to create Arthur's."

"Quite correct. I thought I'd hidden it."

"You said you made yourself forget where you'd hidden it," Merlin pointed out. "Are you sure you were successful?"

"Positive. I'd have taken it to the Blackwater, knowing me, and told it to hide the thing away where it could not be found. But I suppose I was a little too young to imagine that someone could stumble upon it and determine what it was for. Or that Lake Nostos could yield up things long lost - it wasn't always like that, that Lake. Actually, it was Master Yen who made it a Lake of Lost Things." Morgana smiled. "He made Excalibur, too. Master of Crafts."

Merlin nodded. "So Nimue found the candle?"

"No. Sigan did. Nimue found the tomb. This isn't just some dream of how to be laid to rest: this is the entrance to his very own hidden library. Come on -" she beckoned Merlin to follow as she stepped carefully into the room, lighting it with magic that revealed every trick step and the trajectory of every arrow. "Avoid the traps. The sarcophagus is either a portal or a trapdoor."

It proved to be a trapdoor. "So he never figured out how to travel between realms?" Merlin noted, walking down the steep steps into an even more subterranean network of caverns.

"No, but he figured out how to build libraries with secret passages and trick bookcases," Morgana pointed up to a second level further into the cavern. "There - that would be right about parallel to the Hall of Records. Geoffrey probably wouldn't know about it. Remember that Goblin we had running around? Bet that came from here."

"Probably." Merlin sighed and sat down on the stairs. "What are we doing here, Morgana? Sigan is dead. He couldn't keep his secrets from Nimue - we can't even blame a dead man for that."

Morgana scoffed grimly. "Never discount the possibility of ghosts."

"What, seriously? We both saw him beheaded - the whole of the citadel saw that."

"You saw him beheaded," Morgana corrected.

Merlin rose slowly. "Oh, no - you didn't. Morgana?"

"I couldn't send him to his death, Merlin," she admitted sadly.

"So - what, he's here?"

"You'd be surprised."


	13. The War of the Witches Begins

Late one night, unable to sleep and not having found Morgana anywhere in her usual haunts, Merlin assumed she was wandering about in the same fit of insomnia, and padded off through the castle halls, quiet as a cat's shadow. A few odd turns into places he'd never been in more than once, he came upon the sound of Morgana's voice - or, rather, her whisper

"Are you mad?" she hissed. "Letting her into the tombs like that? Did you even know what she was after?"

He couldn't hear the response, but then perhaps he only heard Morgana's acerbic annoyance anyway, and the voice carried to him better because he had been listening to it for several hundred years.

"Oh come off it, you know better than to trust every magical female that scampers past and makes eyes at you, you never trusted me to begin with.

"How is that different?

"Oh, so you didn't trust me because you knew I was keeping something from you, some ancient secret lore - but with her you don't even know what she might be hiding and you let her into your library? For the love of Unicorns' hooves!"

_Unicorns' hooves?_ Merlin suppressed a fit of snickering.

"No, look: that candle, you knew it was dangerous, right? Right. That candle killed Ygraine. Why don't you hold yourself accountable for that? We agreed, you were going to help build Albion, not help destroy it. That little mistake very damn near did destroy it.

"Yeah, well, I don't care, do I? No more pretty doe-eyed witches!"

Moments later, Morgana shot out of one of the rooms down the hall, looking back, and walked right into Merlin's arms.

"Hello," he said.

"What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep, went out for a walk. Who were you talking to just now?" Merlin asked. And when Morgana cast another look behind her, clearly loathe to answer, he added, "Sigan's ghost?"

She turned sharply back to him. "Don't be ridiculous, there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Really?" Merlin gasped in mock surprise, as Morgana moved to pass him. He held her arm. "No such thing, eh? What was that in the tombs with Uther then? And between the two of us, we've seen a few undead things as well, so really if you can't discount it from a scientific standpoint, you can't deny the possibility in terms of Magic!" he ended in a shouting whisper.

Morgana was beginning to look annoyed, which was just the effect he was hoping for.

"Come on, then," he egged her on, "who else would you be talking to about letting Nimue into Sigan's tomb?"

"I never said anything about a ghost," Morgana pointed out quietly.

Merlin leaned back, as if he'd suddenly realised something important. "I can see what this is really about."

Morgana inclined her head. "Oh?"

"Yes: you've made a magical discovery, and you don't want to share it with me," Merlin said accusingly.

Morgana rolled her eyes.

"Look, that's fine, you're entitled to your own secrets after all these years," Merlin went on. "We've certainly been apart long enough to have acquired quite a few, no matter how many stories we make up and tell each other about doing those things together. I only want to know one thing."

She sighed testily. "And what might that be?"

"Why Unicorns' hooves?"

Morgana broke her glare and smiled sweetly someone behind her husband. "Good night, Sir Leon!"

The knight approached all the same. "Lord Merlin, Lady Morgana. What are you doing out so late?" he asked.

"Couldn't sleep, what with the full moon and all," Merlin replied. "Thought some fresh air might do us good."

"The air's not very fresh indoors," Sir Leon pointed out.

"Well, we would have made it out, but someone here started a bit of an argument," Morgana snapped believably.

"I'm insufferable," Merlin agreed.

"And I apparently have an appalling sense of direction. Meanwhile he still gets lost on his way to the throne room."

"Mhm, like I said: insufferable."

Sir Leon nodded, more than happy to let them be. "I think you'd best be heading back to your chambers now. The other guards are likely to assume you're up to no good," he warned them.

"Always," Morgana assured him. Sir Leon eyed them skeptically as he passed, then went on his way down the hall.

Merlin watched him leave, waiting until he was out of earshot with the air of someone who knew something very interesting indeed. "Amazing fellow. He's survived just about every kind of trap or attack or curse or spell that's ever been thrown in his direction. His loyalty to the King is unassailable." He said it with an air of leaving something out.

"Yes, it's certainly remarkable," Morgana admitted, carefully avoiding whatever Merlin had left unsaid.

Merlin watched as Sir Leon turned the corner, then looked back at Morgana again with a knowing smile.

"Sigan's ghost, eh?"

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Every year, Camelot held a number of tourneys. The most important was, of course, the Tourney of the King, and was always met with excitement and anticipation. Every tourney was but a preparation for this one, as only those who had succeeded in the final rounds could participate. And of course the odd traveling knight could partake.

This year, as the participating knights were welcomed in the throne room, the small gathering was buzzing with some form of excitement - whether morbid or timid, Morgana couldn't quite tell. She leaned closer to Merlin and pulled his sleeve gently. "What's going on?"

Merlin leaned closer and whispered over her ear, "Mystery knight. There, in the back."

In the back, there was indeed a knight who stood apart from the others, and his colours were black as night. He had not removed the helm from his head. "Carries well. Looks like a threat," Morgana nodded with a sly smile.

"Indeed. Think he'll last?"

"Are you asking me to snoop on the outcome of the tourney?" Morgana shook her head. "No, that's easy betting, and I won't have you cheat on my visions."

Merlin scoffed. "Come, Morgana, you're usually the first to tell me you're getting bad feelings about someone. What's your first impression here?"

"Nothing good for sure," she admitted, "but who can say what that means? A black knight is never safe company. I'm tired of checking my every move against the future of Albion, and I already know the future's pretty bleak. Let's leave it at that and see what happens, eh? Be surprised for once."

Merlin nodded. "Well, at least you're seeing sense finally."

Morgana pinched him.

* * *

The Black Knight fought like no one else. He splintered shields, he knocked away helmets, and the only thing that seemed to be keeping anyone alive was the fact that the blades had been blunted. There were more bruises and broken bones to take care of than in living memory. Morgana sat with a hand at her temple and a permanently fixed expression, one arched eyebrow and the corners of the mouth pulled down, strain evident. At this rate, the Black Knight could cut through two dozen men and all without a scratch. But more importantly, he was cutting a path straight through the competitors to the Pendragons.

There was considerable strain brewing between father and son. Arthur, sensing the fact that his father was aging, did not want him facing the Black Knight on his own. Uther, proud, and still the King, was equally sensitive on the subject. He was furious that his own son could think him too weak to stand against the mystery knight. Both Merlin and Morgana knew that he would likely be bested by Arthur in any case.

It was then that Arthur came to the Healer's chambers. He'd never ask for advice, but he certainly came looking for it. Merlin and Morgana instantly dropped what they were up to. Sebastian and Mariana also looked up from their books and shifted closer to the table.

"So!" Sebastian began.

"You are up against your father," Mariana continued.

"And you can't let him win," Sebastian added.

"Because then he'd have to face the Black Knight," Merlin put in. Morgana nodded.

"But you can't beat him," Mariana carried on.

"Because then he'd look weak in front of his people," Morgana cut in finally.

"This four-person routine you've got, it's really not funny," Arthur scowled.

"We've been doing this for almost seventeen years, darling, and before that there were only three, and before that there were only two. You missed the times when this routine was easy. Just wait for Gaius to get here, we'll have all five going at you," Morgana grinned. "You can't beat us. But you can beat your father."

Merlin nodded. "Or you can throw the fight."

"And watch the Black Knight beat him?" Arthur protested.

"Or maybe not beat him," Mariana suggested, spreading her hands. "Who knows?"

Morgana nodded. "In any event, we don't want to see your father lose to you. Hugely bad political move. But we can try to keep him safe."

"How?" Arthur asked, desperate. "How do you plan to do that?"

"When have we ever failed you before?" Sebastian asked.

Merlin immediately made a motion as if to sweep the words off the table. "Don't answer that."

Arthur shook his head. "Please, whatever it takes, just keep him alive." He rose and left in a hurry.

Morgana exchanged a worried look with Merlin.

"Excalibur," Sebastian muttered.

"What?" his mother snapped sharply. "Sabi, if that sword ever ends up in the hands of someone other than the One True King, who knows what might happen! And there's no way to dull that blade."

"Do you expect the Black Knight to keep a dull blade when facing the King of Camelot?" Mariana asked suddenly.

Morgana leaned forward to get a clear look at her daughter. "Mari? What do you know?"

Mariana sighed. "I was out with Sabi, collecting those mushrooms for that tea, and I saw the Black Knight at the edge of the forest."

Merlin sighed. "So against your better judgement and all our warnings to you - _ever_ \- you followed."

Sabi nodded. "Sorry, Mom, Dad - but there was something wrong about him."

Morgana shook her head. "Well, you're both alive, so - what did you see?"

Mariana took a deep breath and went on. "The Black Knight met Nimue. We were too far to hear anything, and Gaius was expecting us back, so, we didn't get any closer. Nimue gave him something - a vial of some sort, maybe."

"Ugh," was the best Morgana could manage at that, and dropped her head onto her arms.

"I have an idea," Merlin told her, then turned to his son and daughter. "And as for you two - no more herb picking without Gaius for a month."

Sabi and Mari groaned.

* * *

Arthur did indeed throw the fight. It wasn't obvious from the stands, but Morgana and Merlin - and even Uther - were all well aware of it. The next day, the King of Camelot would be facing the Black Knight, and the crowd cheered wildly - "Stupid violence as always," Morgana snarled.

The night before the final match, Morgana boldly knocked on Uther's door.

"Sire, a moment of your time?"

"Lady Morgana," he said, stepping aside.

The King's chamber looked nothing the way it should have. All the furniture had been pushed to the walls, and at the center of the room was a bare floor. "Practicing?" she asked. "I know Arthur threw the fight. And I know you bullied him into it, to prevent him from facing the mystery knight."

"Indeed," he uttered flatly, in a tone that questioned her statement, but found himself too tired to argue.

Morgana produced a vial. "A potion for a good night's rest. You've been fighting for days. It's the best I can do, so you face him in full strength tomorrow."

Uther accepted silently, not noticing that a beam of light had passed over his sword and replaced it with another. Morgana bid him good-night and left.

The next morning was cool and fresh, and the Black Knight stood waiting still as stone for the King to make his way out onto the field. Morgana kept a watchful eye on him, while Merlin carefully followed Arthur's every move. Uther at last made his way out to a roar of cheers. The audience settled into their seats, though Morgana's hand flew instantly to her throat and Merlin grasped her shoulders to reassure her. The nearly golden gleam of the sword in Uther's hand caught his eye.

"Is that Excalibur?" he asked his wife.

"Aye, so it is," she replied.

"Are you mad? He's been trained to fight since the age of four, do you really think he won't notice the difference between a Dragon-forged blade, light as Death, and his own broadsword?" Merlin shook his head. "And after all your warnings of the power at sword could give him?"

"It will give him immense and unquestionable power," Morgana replied in a hurried whisper, "perhaps more than we could afford. He'll not fall in any battle he wages with that blade in hand, and it will give him a conviction that what he does is right. He has that already, and already we cannot afford it. But that Black Knight - look at his blade. Can you not see it?"

She was not wrong: the Black Knight's sword shone with a faint, almost invisible, soft whiteness more akin to magic than to sunlight. "That's no dulled blade," Merlin realised, moving as if to leave his seat, but Morgana held him back.

"No!" she hissed. "The moment he realises that blade is sharp as an assassin's, he'll find his own weapon is his best defence. Let it be, Merlin. Besides, you know Excalibur very quickly accommodates the one whose hand it serves. He may think at first that his sword has been changed, but in a few strokes it'll be an extension of his arm."

Merlin cast a worried look at her, but settled back into his seat. "And what if that blade is poisoned?" he asked her.

"Excalibur's scabbard doesn't just prevent blood loss. It won't help against everything, but I've considered most of the fast-acting poisons, and some pretty nasty curses."

But as the Black Knight and the King first crossed blades with a heavy ring, and Uther just barely hid the fact that the blow could have set him off balance, Morgana tensed and shifted. "They'll need a proper Healer. I'd better go down there."

"Yes - please," Merlin entreated her fervently.

Morgana watched from the entry to the field, catching Merlin's eye from the stands. A little to his right she could see Mari and Sabi hovering behind Arthur. The fight was amicable enough for the first few minutes, though the blows were beginning to fall thicker and faster. The Black Knight gave up the full weight of his stroke for the sake of speed, but the weight of his blow had been the real danger, though he moved like no one else. He was tireless, bold, and surprisingly lithe in that metal cage.

Just when it seemed that the mystery knight might yield to Uther - who had not had to give up the force of his stroke for the sake of speed, but kept throwing blows that could have shattered a shield -just when Morgana hoped she might draw breath again, something hit her heavily in the back of the head and she crumpled out of sight of the stands. It was then that Merlin, having taken his watchful eye off the dueling pair to cast a hopeful look in his wife's direction, completely missed the first stroke that drew blood. Uther staggered back, shocked, a thin red line across his shoulder. The crowd fell silent.

The lull hung as Uther examined the broken chainmail for an instant. Then he noticed his son, out of the corner of his eye, gripping the rail that separated him from the field. With a rage, with unexpected speed he launched himself at his attacker and in three deft blows he knocked away his helm.

But not a man was this: golden curls, as pure an amber-gold as Ygraine's, cascaded from beneath the black helmet, and a woman's face was revealed. Uther fell back again, aghast at the sight of the features that so reminded him of Gorlois.

In a quiet deadly voice that no one in the stands could have heard, the woman spoke. "Uther Pendragon," she said. "You sent my father, knowingly, to his death upon the taking of Camelot. You married my mother and sent me away. Now my mother and my father are dead because of you. So choose, Pendragon. Either I will have my revenge, or I will have your son. Which will it be?"

"Morgause," he breathed. "I'll die before you touch a hair on Arthur's head."

She bowed her head - graciously, it seemed. He charged her again, but this time Morgause stepped aside, her sword bearing down and slicing across his back. Merlin leapt from his seat and ran after Morgana, but when he got to the entryway, he was puzzled to find that she was not there. He called for the guards and instantly dispatched them to find her, himself running out onto the field - though not far enough to catch Morgause's attention. He found, however, that he could not move much farther, as though an invisible barrier existed between him and the dueling pair.

For a long time now Morgause had been a rumour, a whisper in the night about the young girl who wanted revenge for her father's death. The raiders along the northern border had supposedly been acting in her name, terrorising the villagers, but to imagine that she had any real sway had been impossible - until this moment. Some mentioned that she had studied Magic - at first, Uther had dismissed it as idle gossip, but eventually admitted that it was at least possible. He argued that, as a child naturally inclined to blame him for her parents' deaths, and inclined therefore also to rebel against his rule, this was not a surprising development. The work done on the blade could only have been done by a careful and experienced practitioner. And even if it wasn't her work, Morgana's sudden disappearance indicated to Merlin that Morgause was not alone.

Surprisingly, though Uther lost speed and power with every blow he threw, every one nonetheless remained accurate. Merlin suspected Excalibur was correcting for the failing monarch. He was losing blood, perhaps not as quickly as he would have been without the help of Magic, but there was more to it than that: Merlin was beginning to suspect a slow poison to be at work here. He guessed that by now Uther's eyes were clouding, and he was losing sight of his opponent. Morgause had taken to dancing away just out of reach, though each swing still made contact, leaving dents and scratches in her armour, uncovering the steel beneath the black.

For the last few minutes, Mari and Sabi had been holding Arthur back. They took stock of the situation again. Uther was slowing down, Excalibur or not. Their mother had vanished - and she never would have willingly, not in the middle of this disaster. Their father stood away from Morgause, not willing to tempt fate in an open display of Magic. She might have nothing to lose, but he had his children and his own life to keep. Mari and Sabi exchanged a quick glance, then all at once let the young prince go.

"Father!"

Arthur had stopped short of scaling the rail between him and the dueling pair, but in that moment, though his shout was lost in the riot from the stands, Uther did hear it. He froze, sword upraised, and took in a breath, closing his eyes. Morgause, sensing something was changing, shifting out of her control, also stopped.

With a fierce roar, Uther lunged forward, rearranging his footing as he moved - even as she tried to sidestep him, he had anticipated her evasion and brought the battle to a close, striking heavily at -

Thin air. Where her head should have been.

The crowd gasped, falling silent, as their King loosed his hold on the blade and fell to his knees. As if released from a binding spell, suddenly people began to move: Arthur scaled the railing, Merlin and a handful of knights burst forward to the centre of the field. Merlin, though five lengths as far from Uther as the prince, amazingly reached him first and caught before he fell, face forward, to the ground. As he checked to see if Uther was still conscious, a shadow seemed to gather overhead. He looked up just in time to see Morgause again, and then to hear a piercing scream as she vanished. Just behind her had been one of Camelot's most devoted knights, Sir Leon, with a bloodied blade.

* * *

At Uther's bedside, Merlin sat back, exhausted. It had been five long hours since the tourney came to its bloody and unexpected end. Sir Leon had been tirelessly standing guard at the door, watching Merlin work. The Healer had cleaned the wound, worked wonders on its ragged edges, removed the shattered pieces of the Black Knight's blade. They hadn't expected to find those there, Morgause's sword had appeared quite whole.

"Witchcraft," Sir Leon breathed at the sight of the silvery fragments.

"Normally I would advise against leaping to conclusions, but in this case I'm inclined to agree," Merlin had remarked.

They hadn't exchanged more than a few words in those five hours, but now Merlin's eyes were threatening to close and he needed to keep himself awake.

"So, the butcher's bill," he began with a scowl. "The King has been wounded with a cursed or poisoned blade. If only it were something simple, but no - we need Morgana for this. She knows cursed wounds better than anyone else in the world. But our Court Healer is missing. Morgause is on the warpath, and by the looks of this mess her magic is inestimably powerful. And - critical point - she has help."

Leon looked over at him sharply. "Why do you say that?"

Merlin sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No one moved to help the King, not because they didn't want to, but because they couldn't. Arthur couldn't mount the barrier, I didn't move further into the field - I had the feeling that that was probably the worst idea I'd ever had in my entire life and I'd probably be killed."

Leon nodded. "No knight would ever admit to that."

"Neither would Prince Arthur. But I think it was more than just a sense of foreboding. A barrier like that could in fact be very dangerous, maybe even deadly."

"Couldn't Morgause have held the barrier?"

"While fending off the onslaught of one of the greatest warriors of the age?" Merlin shook his head. "Uther may be getting on, and Arthur may be forced to throw the fight to let him win, but he can still take the lot of his knights to school. Apologies, Sir Leon."

The knight shrugged. "Not at all, I do believe you're right. The Pendragons were always known for superhuman strength and stamina. So who do you think was helping Morgause?"

"Whoever took Morgana, and put up that barrier. My son and daughter saw the Black Knight in the forest with the Lady of the Lake."

"Nimue?"

"That's the one."

Sir Leon considered for a moment. "Have they mounted a search for her?"

"Mercy, good Sir Knight!" Merlin wrung out a wry and hopeless chuckle. "She's not a member of the royal family, nor officially a member of his council, though she certainly knows enough -"

"And that," Sir Leon interrupted, "is exactly why we must find her. Lady Morgana collects secrets when no one else is knows that a secret's been told."

Merlin was forced to concede. "She does have that unlucky talent. And as I said, she's the only person who could really help Uther now. And - be this spoken in a whisper - Gaius knows a thing or two about magical lore, but Morgana, for all that, may know more."

The knight nodded, understanding. "I'll inform Prince Arthur of your request to send out a search party, and I will relay your arguments."

"Good. So long as he makes the decision on his own. Thank you, Sir Leon."

Morgause and Nimue together meant a war unlike any Camelot had ever seen, Merlin thought, leaning back into his armchair and eyeing the wounded King.

He'd already survived several hundred years of war, and he could do it again. But he didn't want to.

Not without her.


	14. Poisoned

They found her about the time they'd started to give up any hope of finding her. A patrol had been forced off-course by a stream swollen with recent rains and stumbled across a traveling pack of bandits, considered responsible for at least twelve of the recent raids so near Camelot.

The bandits' luck was running out, it seemed: the previous night, a disoriented Morgana had stumbled upon their hideout and found herself captured and bound. When the knights of Camelot came upon the encampment, she managed to free herself in the ensuing skirmish. Though the knights found themselves vastly outnumbered, seven men against twenty-nine, Morgana went for the nearest fallen broadsword and cut down anyone who came within reach. She barely moved from her spot, and yet fought in a manner that Morgause would have rightly trembled to see. Swaying slightly, and finding that for the most part the encampment had been completely taken over, she dropped the point of the blade into the ground and stood leaning on it, as if it were a staff, to support her weight.

They hadn't seen her in over a year. The search parties had almost given up only three months in. Her auburn hair was black with dirt and matted. What had once been a healer's cloak of politically neutral blue was now a tattered mess. A once-lovely gown had been torn at the hem nearly up to the knee to give her the freedom to run. And yet she stood, leaning on a broadsword, with bright eyes and a look on her soiled face of satisfied victory.

"Lady Morgana?" Sir Leon asked.

"Aye, dead and alive again," she answered, and collapsed.

* * *

From the moment of her return to the city, Uther was wary of Morgana. He had her questioned by the people she trusted - Sir Leon and Gaius, for all their loyalty to the Healer, were his prime agents. Morgana obliged their curiosity to a degree, but remained stubbornly silent on the subject of her escape. She provided them with information on the location and force of the strongholds of their enemies, and on the encroaching forces of bandits. That, she emphasised, was no coincidence: Morgause had been paying off thieves and beggars and smugglers to raid villages and move into the heart of Camelot.

Morgause had also entered into a marriage with Cenred to secure an army, and the enemy outposts were quickly moving in following the pillagers. Morgana had journeyed through miles of bandit-ravaged, enemy-occupied land from where she'd been held, but she also indicated with appreciable accuracy just where she'd been held on a map, warning that Morgause had long since fled that outpost.

She was highly suspicious herself of the arrival of Ygraine's brother Agravaine, who had appeared quite abruptly after Morgause's duel with the King, and found his closeness to Uther peculiar.

"How would you feel," she asked Merlin one night - still pale, with unreliable balance at best, sitting in the shadowed archways in the hall where the King's council gathered - "how would you feel, if your darling young sister fell in love with a man who ultimately led her to her death?"

Merlin had shrugged. "Did Uther, in fact, lead her to her death?"

Morgana shook her head sadly. "You may not remember, but I saw Agravaine at her deathbed. He had a murderous look about him. I particularly remember, he went after Nimue that night, and yet she is still alive, and none the worse for wear. I wonder," she murmured, but said no more.

As Merlin led her to the Healer's chambers that night, he couldn't help asking about what he'd so carefully avoided mentioning since her return. "Both Leon and Gaius have spoken to you, they've asked you all kinds of things, but you never talk about Morgause. Why?"

Morgana shook her head a fraction. "Let's talk where no one else will hear," she suggested. Back in their rooms, Merlin took hold of her elbow, and they vanished in smoke, only to reappear at the top of their favourite tower. Morgana nodded her approval and waved a hand in a circular motion, rendering them invisible and inaudible to unwelcome eyes and ears.

"Well," she croaked, as she sat against the battlements, "this brings back memories."

Merlin smiled. "Master Yen's tower. The first time we met, and sparred with Magic. You nearly drowned me."

"And dragged you out to dry on that tower," Morgana smiled fondly. "Those were the days. You couldn't tell when a huge magical wave would actually be fueled, rather than quelled, by your spells. We were so young and silly - capable of immensely powerful magic, unaware of the consequences, and especially the damage it caused."

She sighed as Merlin sat beside her, looking up at the stars. "You showed me what a Dragon was, and showed me that I was one," he remembered.

Morgana nodded, breathing freely for the first time since her return, squinting up at the stars as if, if she looked hard enough, she could just reach out and touch them.

"You know, funny enough, neither Leon nor Gaius were much inclined to press me for answers I did not wish to give. Uther had them ask me questions, and they did - but they did no more than that."

"Why would Uther have them prying?" Merlin asked, though without a hint of surprise.

"Isn't it suspicious that I somehow escaped? I'd been missing a whole year - I should have been dead. The search parties gave up over half a year ago."

Merlin started.

"Oh, I'm not blaming anyone for that, believe me. I am blaming them for being as unwary of me as they are now of Agravaine. A full year - I could have been turned, made a traitor." Morgana grinned madly. "I haven't -" she assured Merlin, but with that look on her face he only shook his head and looked away.

"I see what you mean," he said. "But what about Morgause?"

Morgana sighed, for some reason sinking again into a dejected look. "You know, I've never heard a sadder story in my life. I suspect she wanted to humanise herself, and to a degree she did succeed. I'll tell you what I know, and I know more of it from guesswork and old memories and rumours, but all the same, it is a surprisingly accurate story that I've pieced together. She had the final piece, and now she's given it to me.

"I believe you will recall that Uther and Gorlois were very close once. Gorlois was a good fifteen years his senior, and taught him almost all he knew about military leadership and diplomacy, but in the end the two were very nearly brothers. You may be surprised to find that Uther was like a favourite uncle to Morgause, when she was just a little girl. Gorlois was more often to be found at the King's elbow - and I am referring now to Uther's father - than he was to be found at home.

"Ygraine and Uther met by chance in the royal gardens. Morgause ran right up to him and begged him to play a game of catch, or some other silly child's pastime. From that moment you can guess the rest: Uther met Ygraine more and more frequently, until they were both very much in love. Gorlois remained blissfully unaware, while Ygraine must have felt more and more guilty each day. Then, finally, Gorlois received orders to take command of the army of Camelot and defend the kingdom. He took his wife and daughter with him - which, presumably, was a great relief to Ygraine.

"Not long after, Uther, as the younger of the King's sons, was sent away to fight alongside one of the greatest generals of the day, and receive proper military training. That general happened to be none other than Gorlois. And, as Fate would have her way of mucking things up for everybody, Uther met Ygraine again. And this time, Gorlois noticed. He said nothing for a long time, I think, aware that the two were fighting against every possibility of an emotional bond, but the rift between Gorlois and Uther grew more and more palpable.

"In that time, Sigan took over the kingdom, killing the elder Pendragon and Uther's older brother. When word reached the encampment, there was suddenly a reversal of roles: Uther was now King, and Gorlois his right hand. At this point, Uther began giving orders, and we know he was a natural leader and military genius after his own fashion. Gorlois felt he was being pushed aside. He would not have taken the risks that Uther dared, and I know for certain that he would never have advanced half as far, but the spite he felt grew only blacker.

"One night, the two came to blows. It seems Morgause happened upon them when Uther had the upper hand. She was just beginning to understand the attachment that had formed between Uther and her mother. And as a general's daughter I believe she was more than aware of the fate Uther had sent her father to, at the taking of Camelot. We all knew - and I warned him outright - that the people he sent in through the gate were not likely to survive.

"And then he sent her away," Morgana sighed, "to live with her grandmother. He had been more a father to her than Gorlois, but he sent her away. She made herself hate him. She blamed herself for bringing him into her mother's life, blamed herself for blindly adoring him. And now, she's out for revenge."

Merlin stared at her, astonished. "Twisted."

Morgana shrugged. "Human."

"You Dragons are rather full of yourselves, you know that, right?" Merlin quipped, much to her amusement.

"Pendragons," Morgana said thoughtfully.

"What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Just wondering," she said again, staring up again at the stars.

"How did you escape, by the way?" he asked at length.

"Merlin, please," Morgana smirked. "Magic. I wasn't about to tell Uther that. Could have escaped her ten thousand times this whole year, but now I know what she's up to."

* * *

Uther Pendragon spared no expense for his son's birthday celebration, for this was the year Arthur Pendragon would come of age. He was inundated with reports of attacks from the north, from his usually peaceful neighbors, and with rumours of a fearsome blight slowly but steadfastly spreading through the kingdom's crop. All around there were stories of terrible dark monsters, half-breed things set loose in the woods to terrorise his people. But tonight, he forcibly pushed all of that from his mind: tonight was for his son alone. It was a lavish party, with many guests of honour and the best of the traveling entertainers. Merlin had an odd way with that folk: Uther had but to mention a group, and Merlin would assure him, with a stiff bow, that they would be present at the party. And they would appear without fail.

Merlin was, in fact, a very strange man, as Uther invariably remarked to himself. He had never been particularly close with him, nor considered him an advisor of any kind. But when Merlin gave unsolicited advice, respectfully and coolly masking the irreverent streak inherent in his being far better than Morgana, Uther had, over the years, learned it was far wiser to take that advice than to ignore it. He forgave Merlin a great deal more than anyone else, for from what he understood, the traveler came from a faraway land where his people had no King. And, besides, Merlin was clearly educated, very concise, and above all also a Healer. Uther judged him to be a perfect candidate to tutor his son, and Merlin did not disappoint.

Of course, Merlin did not only tutor young Arthur on the subjects that had been prescribed by the King. He and his wife taught the boy about healing herbs, how to navigate according to the stars, and though he seemed loath to handle a weapon, he proved a masterful swordsman and an excellent instructor in that as well.

Uther himself was aware of how close his son had grown with Master Merlin. In the last few years, it had become a painful reminder to him, of how little time he had spent with his boy. He taught him to ride and to hunt, and even taught him swordplay at first. But Camelot had been in dire straits then, and the moment he found Merlin, Uther sank completely into the defense of his Kingdom.

Nor had he realised, until recently, just how little he understood his son: the proud and noble young boy who quarreled with him so frequently now, pleading with him to show mercy, to show that an iron will could be tempered with a kind heart, and still be seen as strong. It struck him rather acutely, on the night before Arthur's birthday, when he'd goaded Merlin into speaking his mind and was met with an outpouring of such bile as should have been considered treasonous.

A rumour had spread among the knights, that Merlin was far more daring than the lot of them put together, and when it came to protecting the young prince, he readily dashed headfirst into almost certain death. Uther agreed, having witnessed this powerful devotion in less lethal situations. But on this occasion, though he admired Merlin's conviction and spirited arguments, he stopped listening the moment Merlin called him a 'cold heartless monster'. Merlin fell silent at length, and watched the dejected King, waiting for him to at least call the guard and have him taken down to the dungeons. It had happened before, and was probably the worst he could expect.

"Is that how my son sees me?" Uther muttered at last.

Merlin's watchful, thoughtful eyes widened a fraction. He sighed, and stepped back to the window, where he perched himself on the sill. "No," he said, "not at all. You are his father, Sire, and he still believes, rather unlike me, that you are capable of kindness."

Uther couldn't help the smile that fought its way to his face. "Merlin, you have no sense for survival."

"On the contrary, I only know I would be worth nothing to you if I did not prove a constant thorn in your side. You would ignore me otherwise."

"That is likely. Merlin, there is but one thing in my life that I truly regret," Uther said suddenly, seized with an uncontrollable compulsion to tell someone of the heaviness in his heart. "I regret not having been there for him as a father. So much so, that I have even come to envy you, Merlin."

Merlin shifted abruptly, but Uther waved a dismissive hand, and went on.

"I have prided myself, all these years, on teaching him by example how to be a good King, but every King is shaped by his time and by what his people need. That is not a thing that can be taught. For better or for worse, I leave him a Camelot in much the same state as I would have been given it by my father - a country wracked with battles and disease, on the eve of war with some unknown enemy. In some way, Sigan was their saviour - the right King for that time. But the people of this Kingdom are not at all the same now. They want different things. Arthur will make a great King, the greatest Camelot has ever seen - he has the right instinct for it, and I trust him. I only wish I had chosen him over everything else."

Merlin sat thoughtfully on the window seat, staring into the fireplace. "He looks to you, Your Majesty, because you are his father. He has always wanted to be like you, to be as strong and as wise, as respected by his people. I often feel his love for you clouds his judgement of your actions. It is a shame that love is so rarely expressed in royal families."

Uther looked over at him, then turned his eyes back to the flames. "Take care of him, Merlin. When he is King, he will someone at his side bold enough to make him feel a fool."

Merlin laughed dryly. "Sire, sometimes he makes me feel a fool."

"Well. He will be King, after all," Uther chuckled. "I wish his mother could see him now. He is so much like her, it amazes me."

* * *

The next night was the grandest celebration Camelot had ever seen. There was dancing and singing and honoured guests from all the neighbouring Kingdoms, who set aside their differences just for one night. As expected, some did come to spy on their enemies, but Merlin and Uther were masterfully shrewd where it came to hiding the important things and focusing only on Arthur.

When the arrangements were complete and the guests just beginning to arrive, Merlin sped downstairs past the bustling kitchens and to the Healers' chamber, where Morgana was preparing for dinner in the King's court. She was rarely seen in public, especially in high society, but well known for her skill throughout Camelot. Public appearances were unnecessary to spread her fame, and so she eschewed them.

"Morgana!" he called, before bursting through the door, breathless. "Are you ready?"

Morgana turned, hands spread in bewilderment, staring at her husband panting in the doorway. "Merlin, you worry too much. One night of celebration - it really can't be so tragic."

"It's not tragic, Morgana, it's horrible. In the middle of a war, of some blight, I've even heard tales of some frightening new plague -"

Morgana cut him off sharply. "All of Camelot is celebrating Arthur's coming of age, and here you are ruining your favourite pupil's birthday for yourself."

But even that did little to cheer him up. "Favourite pupil," he snarled, "don't you mean to say, 'spoiled brat'?"

"Oh, someone really got to you, eh?" Morgana seemed concerned. "You haven't called him a spoiled brat in three long years, and before that not in two. Come on, what is it?"

He sighed and hung his head, utterly dejected. "Uther said he was just like Ygraine," Merlin muttered quietly, sitting down on the stool before her and taking her soft small hands in his. "You remember her, don't you? She was very beautiful, and very kind."

Morgana stared. "Merlin," she said suspiciously, "what are you trying to say?"

"It really does seem as though Uther's kindness died with her," Merlin observed. "He loved her so much. I know, as much as he loves his son, he can't help but be reminded of her death every time he sees him."

Morgana was noticeably worried now, and she crouched down before her husband, still holding his hands. "Merlin, what did he say to you that's scared you so badly?"

His green eyes met her grey-blue pair - like the ocean in fog, he thought. "It sounded like he was apologising," he told her, "like he wanted to make amends for failing as a father, for disappointing Ygraine. It sounded like he was giving up."

Morgana dropped her clear gaze and thought for a moment. "He's not young, his son is now of age, and he has taken every moment in the last year that he might have had to spare, and spent it with Arthur. There's nothing surprising in that. He won't let me examine him, though - but you know how he is. You think that wound of his might be troubling him?"

Merlin nodded. "I rather fear that as it was Morgause who dealt it, we could be in for an unpleasant surprise."

Morgana nodded. "I'll see if I can get him to let you look at it."

"No - Morgana, you should be the one examining it. You know you're better with deep wounds, especially cursed ones."

She laughed. "Goodness, a woman treating the King's injuries. He'd never permit it."

"Leave it to me, dear," Merlin whispered with a sly smile.

"What on Earth does that mean?" Morgana exclaimed.

"It means," Merlin retorted, rising, "the King will ask you to dance tonight."

Morgana considered this for a second, then sprang up after him like a well-wound spring. "No!" she cried out, horrified. "Merlin! That's trickery, and deceit, and - and cunning! I won't do it!"

"Whyever not?" Merlin asked, surprised. "This protest is so unlike you."

"Because using magic right under the nose of the man who exterminated witches in this land is best left to those with a deathwish," Morgana snapped.

"And how would it look if you refused to stand up with the King?"

Morgana scowled at her husband.

* * *

Uther Pendragon danced well, and Morgana proved an equal partner. No one noticed as the practiced fingers of the ancient witch skirted across where the old wound would have been, glowing golden in the candlelit hall. That was the trouble with his witch hunts, Morgana often said, he only saw the obvious signs of magic, and while those were often powerful enough to cause serious damage, two practiced mages such as Merlin and herself could remain undetected for decades. Camelot should consider itself lucky, she joked, that the Dragons are all but extinct.

She sensed a frightening inflammation within the wound. Merlin had taken great care to clean out every fragment of Morgause's shattered blade, to disinfect the ragged tears, but the curse had already done its damage. The wound was sapping Uther of his strength, though he still stood proud and tall. Had Morgana been near at the time, she would have told Merlin to create his own counter-curse to this one, as Morgause had accounted for every known defense. But taking the best Healer of all Camelot as her captive had been Morgause's prime goal, and even a Dragon Mage was not impervious to sharp blow to the head.

Though a year later there was little she could do for that wound, Morgana could at least slow the spread of the curse. She even accepted Uther's request for a second dance with him, weaving a spell as she stepped. Merlin threw surreptitious glances in their direction, for he could see what only Dragon Mages could see: Morgana's magic following her every step and winding around Uther in glowing golden bands. At the end of the dance, as they bowed, an unfortunate cupbearer caused a small tussle at the table. A tall man, stepping back to avoid it, nearly knocked Morgana off her feet.

He snapped around quickly and caught her elbow. Morgana regained her balance gracefully, having avoided further catastrophe in the form of the cupbearer who still stood frozen behind her in fear. "Lord Michael Stoneheart," he introduced himself with a fluid bow, and offered his hand. "Apologies, Milady."

"Morgana," she replied smoothly, with a brisk curtsy, "court Healer. Lord Stoneheart, please, do not trouble yourself, I am quite alright."

"Lady Morgana, I shall not believe that I am forgiven unless you accept my hand for one dance," he said earnestly as Morgana made a step aside to leave. She paused and looked up at him again with a small smile, then cast a glance past his shoulder. Uther laughed, and bowed his way off the dance floor, quite prepared to forgive the stranger for failing to see the King in the presence of the lovely Morgana.

She shrugged lightly: "Very well, Lord Stoneheart, I accept," she smiled, and took his proffered hand. "You might not have noticed," she then added cheekily, "that you have just stolen the King's dancing partner."

"Oh, I do hope he will forgive me," Lord Stoneheart laughed pleasantly, "You rather stole the floor from him, Lady Morgana. It isn't right to stand up with a partner so much better."

"Then the fault is mine, for it is the duty of the King's partner to make certain not to outshine him."

"You were dancing very demurely," he assured her, "but it is impossible to hide such skill."

And Lord Stoneheart proceeded to pointedly complicate the steps, driving Morgana to improvise. Merlin watched from his safe seat near the wall, and marveled at the pair as they drove most others to the edges of the dance floor. Lord Stoneheart was a traveler, it seemed, for he not only took Morgana through the local dances, but even dared to add a foreign flare. At the end, breathless, he bowed before his partner, hands up in surrender.

"Forgive me, once more, Lady Morgana," he said, "I underestimated you."

"Not at all, Lord Stoneheart. Your mistake, after all, was in standing up with a better partner," she quipped in return, and excused herself. Stoneheart stared in her wake, a smile on his face and a fluttering in his breast.

Merlin caught her arm as she passed. "Flirting, Milady?"

"It's a skill like any other," she replied, "takes practice."

"He certainly likes you," Merlin muttered.

"Well I'll keep that in mind. So does Uther, by the way, in case you hadn't noticed."

"That's different," he scowled.

"Quite so. But you've noticed," she grinned.

Merlin rose sharply from his seat, having caught a glimpse of something else - a face in the crowd, a head of dark chestnut hair, a brisk look over the shoulder -

"What is it?" Morgana whispered.

"I could have sworn -" Merlin cast a look about the room. "Nimue wouldn't dare return, would she?"

Morgana instantly pounced onto her toes. "Where?"

"Across the room, on her way out, I think," Merlin muttered.

"Oh, sod it," she snapped suddenly. "Are we mages or not?" she asked, though in an undertone, with an intense current of what-on-this-green-Earth-are-we-doing. They'd grown far too accustomed to avoiding magic.

"Right," Merlin agreed. Together they scanned the room again, this time with a different sight. "Do you see what I see?" he asked her at length.

"Glowing goblet, where that funny little cupbearer toppled into Stoneheart. That looks an awful lot like it shouldn't be in this realm to me."

"Quite."

At that moment, the music stopped altogether and the crowd shuffled back to their seats or their places standing up against the wall. Morgana and Merlin edged forward a little.

"Friends!" Uther began, "Today is the anniversary of the happiest event of my entire life - the day that my son was born. And on this happy day, it is also his coming of age. Within the week, I will have the greatest honour and pleasure of seeing my son crowned Prince of Camelot. Arthur," he turned to his son. "My dear boy, you have made me proud."

Uther smiled and raised his goblet. Arthur bowed his head to hide his eyes filling with tears - such was the effect his father's rare praise had on him - and reached for his own.

"No!" Merlin cried sharply, as Morgana also moved with lightning quickness, though she remained where she stood. A silence fell upon the room.

"Beg your pardon, Lord Merlin?" Uther asked, his expression suddenly darkening.

"Sire, I would strongly recommend that no one drink of the wine, I fear someone's glass may have been tampered with," Morgana answered, thinking quickly on her feet.

"How so, Healer?" he asked, somewhat annoyed.

"I would not presume to ruin the celebration, Sire, if I did not truly believe it. I thought I saw someone tampering with the wine in Arthur's goblet," Merlin said, and Morgana nodded sharply.

"Someone? Who was this mysterious person?"

It was difficult to place the tone in that question - either Uther bristled with annoyance or with genuine fear. "Nimue," Morgana said at last. "We were sure we'd seen Nimue."

"She wouldn't dare show her face here," Uther scoffed, but a practiced eye could see the panic in his eyes.

"Is he really willing to bet that the wine in the prince's goblet is poisoned?" someone asked.

Morgana turned to see a tall portly man rise with his hand on the hilt of his sword. King Bayard had come to Camelot a fortnight ago to negotiate a peace treaty and promise to ally with the Pendragons in the coming war. He'd bargained hard, but come out substantially the loser in the end. Moreover, everyone seemed to eye him with suspicion. The idea that there was poison involved ultimately threatened to implicate him, especially since he'd been sitting very near the goblet indeed.

"Bring the cupbearer. I watched him pour wine into that goblet," Bayard commanded.

Someone seized the frightened boy by the scruff of the neck and dragged him forward.

"Now, Lord Merlin, with my deepest respect, I'll ask you to think again," King Bayard continued, "do you, or do you not think the young prince's wine is poisoned? The cupbearer is responsible for the prince's wine, and he will taste it. His life is now in your hands."

Stoneheart immediately sprang from his seat. "That's barbaric!"

Bayard rounded on him, but found that Stoneheart was taller, and indeed far more dark-looking. He had a murderous glint in his eye, if one dared look close enough to find it. Bayard stepped back carefully.

"It is logical, however," Uther uttered heavily.

"Not at all," Merlin snapped. "My claims, my responsibility."

He walked forward briskly, narrowly evading Morgana's horrified lunge for his hand, raised the cup, and drank from it.

For a moment, nothing happened. He slowly set the goblet back down, with a blank expression.

"I believe," Bayard said acidly, "we owe the cupbearer an apology."

A shock of relieved laughter ran about the room, but Morgana, Stoneheart, Arthur, Uther, and Gaius stood as tense as before, not daring to take an eye off Merlin. He'd turned around and looked right at Morgana, who instantly went pale as death. Anguish twisted his handsome face, and even as everyone thought the worst was over he crumpled. Morgana pitched forward, desperately trying to hold his gaze.

An inhuman scream of grief and anger pierced the air, cutting across the mirth and leaving ghosts of smiles hanging on the guests' faces.


	15. Love In The Time Of Curses

Edwin walked out into the first warm day April had offered, breathed deeply, and once more mentally thanked Willow for dragging him out in the mornings and forcing him to walk - to the diner, and from there to the hospital. Now, as he left her at Granny's, he wondered how much longer he could keep this up. His feet were beginning to drag, and it was only morning. She was right, of course: the more he walked, the longer he'd pull out - but he measured every step, counting them by sets of eight. He'd asked her if she knew what fatigue really felt like - the mind-numbing fatigue that illness brings. And Willow had looked him straight in the eye and said she counted by six.

At the hospital, he was greeted by Dr. Ambrose, a quiet man who seemed largely withdrawn from the world - a grey sort of person, Edwin thought, humourless and lifeless. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and no more than was necessary, which earned him Edwin's respect, but little else. Ambrose seemed sad, dry as a husk, but an efficient and caring physician.

"Good morning, Dr. Dutch," Ambrose greeted him as he entered the office. "Are you rounding today?"

"Yes. Lloyd has been doing pretty well, I think we'll try to discharge him by tomorrow if he keeps it up. Who's on the appointment list?"

Ambrose nodded his approval at Lloyd's discharge. "Mrs. Boyd is here for a check-up, but overall it's a slow day. By the way, I would like to talk to you about something." Ambrose stretched out a hand to the chair across from him, indicating that Edwin should sit.

Edwin nodded, not sure what to expect, and sat down.

Ambrose readjusted his glasses and sighed. "Dr. Dutch, you've been with us for a little over a month now, and I must say you are a first-rate physician, one of the best I've ever worked with. I've been looking to retire, and if you'll accept, I would be perfectly confident leaving the position in your hands."

Edwin froze. "Ah. I am honoured, Dr. Ambrose, but unfortunately I cannot accept your offer."

Ambrose looked up sharply, eyeing his colleague far more directly and with greater presence than Edwin ever remembered. Ambrose always seemed to be wandering about in a haze of grief, but this gaze was far more alert.

"I thought you were staying in Storybrooke?"

"I am. But - uh, I haven't been feeling well lately." Edwin sighed. "Actually, Dr. Ambrose, I have a confession to make. A few months ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer. I haven't that time much left. I am terribly sorry, I couldn't -"

"No - you didn't have to tell me that. I should have noticed," Ambrose shook his head.

"Noticed how?"

"A good diagnostician can't turn off his eye," the old surgeon replied, "or his nose, for that matter. You certainly - begging your pardon - smell of lung cancer. Sounds awful, I know, but it's a distinctive scent," he muttered.

"That's impressive," Edwin admitted.

"Eh -" Ambrose shook his head. "Lately I've been neglecting my patients somewhat, I find. I've stopped noticing things - things I used to be able to point out half asleep on my second shift. I'm not young anymore. You have been extremely helpful. Even if it is for not much longer - at least for that, thank you."

Edwin shifted. "Dr. Ambrose, this is highly irregular, but I do have a suggestion. My wife is also a cardiologist. Dr. Whale informed her that he had no available positions for another doctor, only for a nurse. If you can convince him, I assure you, Dr. Morgan would make a far more impressive partner, and, eventually, successor. She has an inborn talent, and that can't be said of everyone. But even that pales against the fact that she has had to work hard to push through the ranks all her life. She is my wife, of course, but -"

Ambrose raised a hand to stop him and nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Dutch. I understand your reservations on the matter, but I believe I can trust you to objectively recommend her in a professional light. I'll speak to Dr. Whale."

Edwin rose silently and left the office - and nearly walked right into Anita.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Dr. Dutch, I didn't see you there!" she squeaked and smiled brightly.

"Anita, it's alright. I'm off on rounds - when is Mrs. Boyd coming in again today?"

"Er - two o'clock. Dr. Dutch, are you alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost," Anita asked in a hushed voice, genuinely concerned.

"Dr. Ambrose just asked me to let him retire," Edwin smiled, hoping it would pass for a quip, but he'd spoken so wryly that Anita's expression fell only further.

"Here's an open secret for you, Dr. Dutch," she said. "Ambrose has been trying to retire for three long years now, but no one will let him. We'd lose our only cardiologist. Three years ago, his wife died in a terrible accident, and he hasn't been the same since."

"I can't accept his offer," Edwin replied, nearly pleading.

"Oh, I'm not saying you should!" Anita countered quickly. "We all know that if Ambrose retires, he won't last very long. His work is all he has, really. I grant you he's not at his best, but -" she shrugged sadly. "I can't help but think, he'll fade away so quickly if he lets go."

Edwin couldn't help but sympathise. After all, that was why in his last few months he chose to 'retire' to a hospital in Storybrooke. Back home, the place he'd missed most of all, doing what he loved - even Willow had pressed him into coming into work every single day.

More importantly, at work, there was no Willow to see him hiding the handkerchief he'd been coughing into. Of course she knew. But thank the Gods she didn't see.

* * *

Willow stepped out of the music shop with a wide grin and switched her glasses smoothly to a pair of sunglasses.

"Good morning, Dr. Morgan!"

She turned to see Mr. Gold standing just as he had when they'd first met, leaning forward on his cane with a sly smile on his face. "Good morning to you, sir," she flashed him that same wide, warm smile.

"How are you finding our sleepy little town?"

"Peaceful," Willow replied lightly. "Quite relaxing. I think I must have written ten poems last night in a flood, and started on five different ideas for stories. My goodness, I haven't written in over a year, it's like a rebirth."

"You look very well," Gold remarked, "even better than when we first met."

"I bloom in Spring," Willow quipped wryly.

"I can believe it. Care to walk with me, Dr. Morgan?"

"Gladly. Where are you going?" She stepped down to his side and took his proffered arm.

"The convent. It's a rather pretty place, if you like that sort of thing. Gardens, walkways."

Dr. Morgan laughed. "It's spring, Mr. Gold. It's the very best time for gardens. Although it may be a little early this year."

They walked, arm in arm, to the convent, where Mr. Gold made quick work of collecting the rent owed to him. But the Mother Superior, as she concluded her business with him, looked over at his companion sharply. "Welcome to Storybrooke," she said, with an airy smile. "Staying here long?"

"Can't be sure," Dr. Morgan replied with an odd shrug-like movement, almost as if evading the question. Something decidedly negative had crept into her mind at the sight of the woman, and she couldn't place the feeling. She felt inexplicably, and yet decidedly, repulsed.

"Well. We hope to see more of you," the nun replied politely.

"Ah," Dr. Morgan let out coolly as she turned and left.

Mr. Gold glanced between them, bemused by Willow's standoffish response. "Something wrong?" he asked, leading her away towards the garden.

"Oh, not at all. The grounds are beautiful. I suppose the convent is a landmark in this town?"

"Something like that. You don't like convents?"

"I don't like nuns," she laughed. "Is that too awful a thing to say?"

"I don't much like them either," Gold admitted readily. "Any particular reason?"

Dr. Morgan shrugged. "Devoted, simply devoted to blind faith. I have no real objection against religion, mind - even I am not wholly atheistic. I simply don't like what it was used for, how blindly. In almost every situation, it seems to take away a person's belief in themselves, and that's just such an important thing, I can't imagine how people live without it."

Gold stared intently at her for a moment. "Remarkable. You say you are not wholly atheistic, and yet you are a doctor - a cardiologist. I'd have thought a scientist would never admit to believing in a higher power," he half-smiled, intrigued.

Dr. Morgan grinned amiably. "Yes, that's a timeless question, isn't it? Many people wonder how a doctor could dare challenge G-d or Fate, to save someone marked for death. Personally, whether it be G-d or Fate, I find that higher powers get what they were after in the end, one way or another. But while the Gods might be deaf, or blind like Justice, a doctor is neither. A doctor is given a choice: to help, or not to help their patient. And inevitably, they choose to help. So what is it you don't like about nuns?"

"What? Oh -" Gold laughed. "They pay the rent, Dr. Morgan. But you're quite right - believing in oneself is perhaps the most important thing we have."

Across the street, Regina stopped short, and Sidney came up so close behind her he nearly crashed into her shoulder.

"Sidney? Who is this woman? I've never seen her before."

"Dr. Willow Morgan," he supplied readily, "just recently moved into town with her husband, Dr. Edwin Dutch, the new cardiologist."

"She's awfully cozy with Gold," Regina mused, a hint of worry in her voice. "See what you can find out about her. I'm not sure I like this new arrival." Sidney nodded, almost as though he were giving a respectful half-bow, and vanished.

* * *

Edwin left at five that afternoon. As Ambrose had promised, it had been a very slow day. Even Mrs. Boyd seemed in reasonably good health. The poor woman looked worse every time she came, but today it seemed that Spring had touched her ailing heart as well. Dr. Dutch breathed as deeply as he dared, still enjoying the warm sun, and set his feet in the direction of Gold's shop. What he was looking for, he couldn't say, and hoped he'd be struck by some sort of inspiration as he walked through the door. The bell rang overhead, prompting nothing, but Gold looked up from whatever artifact he had been polishing - a rose-gold Dragon, poised with upraised grand wings.

"Still keeping that old piece?" Edwin smirked, recognising it. It had beautiful, remarkably expressive blue-green eyes of sapphire - a delicately crafted piece, overall. It reminded him of Willow, somehow - a very young Willow, as she had been still in medical school. In the last few years, she'd gone quiet - oddly, much like Ambrose. Although lately, it seemed she'd found her voice again. He'd forgotten how much he missed that flare.

"This is a treasure few have ever gotten a chance to hold," the pawnbroker replied. "The kind of piece that, if you find it, you hold onto it, for as long as you can."

Edwin Dutch nodded, and leaned forward onto the display case between him and Mr. Gold. "You didn't tell me what the price would be in this world."

Gold blinked. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Please, Rumpelstiltskin. I remember, and so do you."

A smile almost twitched into existence on Gold's features. "And does she?"

"I get the feeling there are two of her - ever since she met you in the town. She has all the old memories, but they are not in the foreground. Willow is holding them back because they are too bizarre. Until the two can find some sort of common ground, there won't be a Morgana."

"It's progress, all the same."

"I thought I'd have more time with her," Edwin sighed. "But this - illness..." his voice trailed off as he looked over Gold's shoulder at one of the paintings. "I've failed her, Rumple. I wanted to make her happy, but somehow, I couldn't."

Gold watched him with a hint of sympathy in his expression. "If it's any consolation, Michael, Willow is not Morgana. And her depression - who knows what the cause of that could have been - but it wasn't the fact that you did not love her enough. It was simply time to bring her back."

Edwin, or Michael, looked up at the pawnbroker confused. "Time? What was it that was wrong with her, in a world without Magic?"

"If she were in a world without Magic, with her memory intact, then I suspect she could have lived forever. But since she came here following the Dark Curse, she allowed it to change her memories as well, and that's not safe for someone with so many. We are the sum of all our memories, as she used to say. Imagine how much she lost."

Michael nodded. "Still, Gold - lung cancer - hell of a way to go." He sighed shakily.

"Honestly I would have expected heart failure," Gold remarked with a shrug. Edwin stared for a moment, then let out a raucous laugh, bid the pawnbroker good day, and set off in the direction of home.

* * *

Willow was on the second level of the library, humming to herself quietly as she browsed the medical books and dictionaries. Passing by the door of Edwin's study, however, she froze. She could hear him in a terrible fit of coughing and wheezing and gasping through the door, and cringed, tears clouding her sight.

As the gasping took over the other horrible sounds at length, Willow held her breath and tried desperately to hide her tears as she reached up and knocked. The sound died down altogether for a few endless minutes. But just as Willow turned to go, the door opened behind her.

Edwin stood motionless, pale and red-eyed, staring at her tear-stained, frightened face. A ghost of pain fluttered over his own features. "Willow, I'm sorry."

"You could have told me it was getting worse."

"Why? It's not as though there's anything that can help."

"At least you wouldn't be locking yourself in a room, alone. I asked you, I might as well have begged you not to let your guilt ruin what little time we had left together. And what do you do? You don't tell me, you don't tell anyone else in this whole town that you're not going to be around for much longer. It isn't fair, Edwin."

"Willow, come here," he waved to her as he retreated into his study. "I'm drawing up a will, with the help of Mr. Albert Spencer."

"Oh, he's an estate lawyer as well as the District Attorney?"

"Small town. It was either him or Gold, and I wouldn't want to be any more in that man's debt than my family left me. Although maybe Spencer's worse. Lawyers - you can never tell with them," he shrugged as lightly as he could. "Anyway, you are the sole benefactor, and there really isn't much to leave you. Arrangements for this house will have to be made through Gold, of course - that, I cannot change. My family had a contract for him, they promised to supply him with any of their antiques, should he request any specific article. He hasn't taken advantage of that in some time, but the contract still exists. I wish you didn't have to do business with him, but he seems to have warmed up to you, somehow."

"I can't stand here discussing what's left of your life, I won't," Willow snapped, jerking away sharply from the desk and fleeing the room.

"Morgana."

Willow froze, one foot nearly over the threshold. Slowly, she turned back to face him, a lost look on her face. For a moment, she looked as though afraid she was going crazy - that was Willow, staring back at him in pure terror. Then the terror faded, and became instead a look of utter confusion. "You remember. I thought no one else did."

"I remember," he admitted. "You're probably right, no one else in this town seems to. Please, come sit down."

Morgana staggered back into the room and collapsed into the chair on the other side of his desk. She was shaking her head, as Willow let Morgana think for her for a moment, just to see what would happen. Edwin took a few even breaths, straining against another cough, then sat down across from her himself.

"I am sorry. I am sorry for everything I did to you in that other life, and I wish I could have been a better husband to you in this one. It's this curse, I can't wrap my head around it - it's as though everything I'd ever wanted is somehow poisoned. When I first came here, I thought perhaps outside Storybrooke I might fare better - that's why I made a deal with Rumpelstiltskin to leave for a while, to find you. And we built a life together, some of it on false memories, but it was a real, whole life, all the same. Or perhaps the fact that part of it was a lie was what really broke us apart. I only wish I could have made you happy."

"Edwin, Edwin," she sighed, shaking her head. "Listen to me, love: we've seen so much together, both in this world and in the other. And in all the years I've lived, trust me, a false memory is no worse than a real one. And, you know, we were happy. Yes," she assured him, stepping round the table, kneeling before him and taking his hands, "we were. I was happy."

He winced and looked away. "You're saying that now to a dying man, Morgana."

"No one should die with regrets, especially empty ones," she replied softly, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. He couldn't resist the impulse, then, to look down and meet her clear grey-green eyes.

Morgana smiled. "Edwin. I don't view my life, in this world, with you, as cursed."

Those large expressive eyes, the colour of a tempestuous sea, they held memories of centuries - perhaps even millennia. She knew the stories of so many people from all around the world, and had crossed paths with thousands, possibly with every person in this town. Edwin couldn't hold that gaze: it made him dizzy every time with the weight of the whole of history. He closed his eyes as a tear escaped, and gratefully covered Morgana's delicate hand with his.

Somewhere inside the woman kneeling across from her dying husband, Willow had frozen in place. For Willow, it was as though she stood in the doorway, staring at the tableau playing out before her - an out-of-body experience, if you will. It seemed impossible to imagine seeing what this other woman, this _Morgana_, saw, and she could imagine seeing it so perfectly from the side. But after a moment, Willow dared to look through those grey-green eyes, to see what Morgana saw. Now her mind supplied her with the memories of Michael Stoneheart, and for the first time, something of her life here seemed to make sense.


	16. The Price of War

Gaius hovered at the Healer's door, which had been locked since Sir Leon had carried Merlin down from the throne room, just barely keeping up with Morgana as she rushed before him. She hadn't been running, and yet she moved impossibly fast. She'd thrown everyone out and sent her son and daughter into the town to do a circuit of the houses and see if anyone needed anything - herbs, simple potions, or just someone to talk to.

Hours later, Morgana stepped out - and almost trod on Gaius' toes. She sprang aside hissing like a startled cat before she realised whom she'd just missed. "Gaius!" she exclaimed, finally collecting herself.

"What of his condition?"

Morgana stopped to catch her breath before answering. Gaius had been born in Camelot, and was of Gorlois' generation - some fifteen or sixteen years Uther's senior. Though a healer's apprentice in the days when Uther was born, even then he'd tended to the young prince. Now he was one of the King's most trusted advisors - a position neither she nor Merlin could ever have achieved. Gaius had practiced magic once, and Uther knew that, and trusted him all the same.

Morgana considered this as she recovered her nerve, noting just how unfair it was that Gaius had been made her apprentice by Sigan upon her arrival in Camelot. Morgana certainly had plenty to teach - lifetimes of information - and had even showed him a modest bit of Healing Magic before Sigan's fall. But the long and short of it was that he'd been apprenticed to two healers, and it didn't seem fair that only now was he finally coming into his own.

At last, she spoke. "It's a poison not from this realm. The antidote, if one exists, can only come from there, and even if I knew how to cross realms, I wouldn't know which to go to. I've managed to delay the onset of the effects, but that's essentially condemning him to a slow death rather than holding out for a cure."

Morgana had completely forfeited control over what she let pass her lips now. She spoke of magical things as easily as she might have predicted the weather for a month, with hardly a care for who might hear it. She paced the width of the hall, but Gaius carefully kept a lookout as he considered what she'd said.

"Is it like Uther's wound?" he asked.

"Yes, very much like it. The difference, however, is that given the rate at which Merlin's body is failing him, in its original realm that poison would have the strength of aconite. Morgause's venom was not so strong."

"And you don't know of a way to cross realms?"

"If I knew, I'd have left ages ago," Morgana said, and only half joking. "Everyone thinks that somewhere there's a better place. Legend would have the world believe that there was a civilisation of great Mages who found a way to travel freely between realms. I've seen the old city that supposedly boasts such an accomplishment. It was buried beneath a thick layer of ash, left by some cataclysm. The truth is, they fled the city before it was buried. There's some sign that they could travel between realms, but not reliably. The closest they came to it must be the Infinite Forest - which, some suggest, was created by them in a madcap experiment."

"Yes, yes - the Dragons," Gaius cut her off. "I am aware of the stories."

"Really?" Morgana started, although in truth her expression flatly contradicted her tone of surprise. But she'd never told him of her people.

"Ancient lore is a beloved hobby," he explained, waving the subject off.

_But Dragon Lore, _Morgana thought, _is a rare thing to come by. Unless you know a family descended from Dragons that keeps record of its most ancient roots._

"Look, are you entirely certain that you saw Nimue slipping the poison into the goblet?"

Morgana shook her head. "I didn't see anything. Merlin swore he saw her. Insofar as obtaining poison - or anything else, for that matter - from another realm, Nimue is the most likely culprit."

"How so?"

"The Lake, like most waters, is a portal to other dimensions, and a seat of potent natural magic," she explained, and put her pacing to an abrupt stop. Strange: if he didn't know about the basic properties that made Water one of the most potent of Dragons' Elements, his familiarity with the lore was cursory at best. So how did he know about Dragons? From Sigan?

Or was there someone else?

"Gaius, he'll be alright in the end. Merlin always is, whether he finds his own way out of it or I drag him out by the ears."

"That's quite a bit of faith to have, where the matter concerns magic from another realm."

"Yes," she drew out with a grimace, "particularly when that faith is all I've got. It hasn't exactly served me well in the past. We always end up together, but never for long and never quite in the best circumstances. Why, we've spent the last twenty years leading a double life and hiding away who we really were from our closest friends. But - that's not the important bit. The important bit right now is Camelot - Arthur - and Uther - and, critically, Agravaine. There's something really very off about Agravaine."

Morgana in a crisis was a completely frenetic and unpredictable creature, distracting herself from the current problem with rapid movements and quick, careful thought. She was convinced that Agravaine was a traitor, and nothing would have her entertain a different notion until she laid a trap. Gaius shrugged and went along with it. If it distracted her from the possibility of losing Merlin, that in itself was something.

For the next week or so, however, Merlin appeared to be almost himself. He looked like he'd caught some awful fever: he was pale, and seemed thinner every day, but he kept himself on his feet. Even as he assured anyone who asked that he was feeling better, Morgana and Gaius knew it would only get worse.

* * *

Late one night, Agravaine woke with a start. It was raining softly, and he listened to its soothing whisper as he lay, wondering what could possibly have woken him. Unable to drift off to sleep again, however, he rose and dressed, and lit his candle to look over a few of the recent reports on the condition of Camelot's army, and the numbers of their allies. He shook his head grimly at the ever-growing stack, and marvelled at the fast progress of the pillagers - almost every week the map reflected a tightening ring about the city. The knights were spread thin, holding the bandits off, but every day they gained ground.

Tomorrow Arthur would leave Camelot and journey to Nemeth, to lend assistance to the kingdom in holding back enemy forces and instruct their new recruits. in the years since Gorlois' death, Uther had taken to training his own knights, and Arthur carried that into tradition. He had also made quite a name for himself as a legendary instructor, having the benefit of not only his father's training, but also the close instruction of two tutors who had seen centuries of warfare unfold.

Of greater interest to Uther was the possibility of securing a union by marriage: Princess Mithian of Nemeth would make the best possible match in the current situation. She also happened to be Arthur's equal in intellect - perhaps, if Morgana were to be heard, even his superior.

Arthur's impending absence rang an interesting new tune in Agravaine's mind. Opportunities unfolded themselves and grew like weeds: if Arthur left, that would leave only Uther in his way, and Uther was growing weaker every minute with that fearsome cursed wound. The prospect of finally taking the city was no longer a dream, but solidly a possibility.

Agravaine paced for about an hour, then scrawled a quick message and rolled it up. He moved to his window and raised his candle up above his head, then brought it down. Almost instantly, from the forest came a large black bird - an enormous raven with glowing red eyes, and plumage so thickly black that it looked purple.

"Take this to Morgause," he whispered.

The raven eyed him crookedly, and vanished.

* * *

Arthur rode out on a damp but sunlit morning with some fifty knights. Agravaine watched them from the battlements, until they were out of sight, then briskly set his plan into motion. Three times he flashed a mirror fragment in the morning light, and waited for the return signal. When it came, he flashed again, and quickly descended to await further developments.

Seven knights were out on patrol that morning. In the woods, they would be overwhelmed by seven of Cenred's men, who would then disguise themselves - with a little help from Morgause's magic - as the fallen knights. They would ride back into Camelot unchallenged. For the rest of the day, these patrols, would meet the same fate.

Four changes of the guard meant twenty-eight men. Twenty-eight of Cenred's men in a practically defenseless Camelot meant - not a siege, but certainly progress. Enough to take down the guard tower at the Main Gate, for certain. If anyone could take a city with twenty-eight men, it had to be Cenred: his men had always been career criminals, bandits, brigands, smugglers, stealthy thieves, and the like.

It would be enough to cause a skirmish. The surviving number would get away, presumably, and sneak into the citadel, into the very heart of Camelot, and murder the King. And then, Agravaine would claim himself Regent in Arthur's absence. Arthur wouldn't survive the journey to Nemeth anyway: his route had been planned ahead of time, in Agravaine's presence, and thus he would meet his end.

It all fit so perfectly together. In a way, it was almost disturbing.

Nightfall was when the takeover should have begun. And indeed, there was a skirmish of some sort at the guard tower. Agravaine paced in the courtyard impatiently, waiting for the scuffle that would announce to him the coming of the assassins. He could kill Uther himself, but he needed a scapegoat to be found in his place.

At last, a small figure wrapped in black cloth dropped from the wall above him and streaked past. It was followed by five others.

Good. Time to get Uther into the throne room.

He did indeed walk Uther, laughing and reminiscing, into the Dragon's Lair. Only, once, Uther had been the Dragon. Now, he stood unknowingly in a circle of murderers, would-be Kingslayers, the men who would free Camelot of his tyranny.

It wasn't long before Uther read something unusual in Agravaine's movements. The knight stepped away from him unexpectedly, and Uther very nearly lost his balance. Hard as he tried to hide the growing weakness, he was about as successful as Merlin. It was then that he noticed the silent dark, threatening, as if someone were standing there, sword drawn, waiting. He smelled an ambush.

"Why did you do it?" Uther asked. "You were like a brother to me, Agravaine."

"You loved my sister," Agravaine's gravelly voice grated against the ear.

"With all my heart," the King said, moved nearly to tears.

"And yet you killed her. Your ignorance killed her, Uther. You fool - how could you not have known? Nimue warned you of the price! Oh, Ygraine would have died to give you a son, but how could you do that to her?"

"Nimue told me it was a life for a life, she never said it would be Ygraine's," Uther whispered.

"Say what you will of your motives, they're obvious enough," Morgana spoke up from a shadowed corner, causing Agravaine to turn sharply in her direction. Only then did he realise at last that his men were not standing, waiting to move in for the kill, but lying on the ground, all dead, within a tight circle of knights. Among those knights stood Arthur Pendragon, his jaw set squarely. Uther often had that look about him, when brought to a cold rage.

"But that's no reason to kill your King, no matter how deep your grief and hatred runs," Morgana continued. "For twenty years you watched her son grow into a handsome young man and a capable leader. So tell me, Agravaine, what is it in Prince Arthur that was not true to your memory of Ygraine?"

"Show your face, witch," the knight snarled at her.

And out of the darkness a hollow voice answered, "Gladly."

Morgana flew out of the shadows with the full force of an ancient, unfathomably wise creature, who'd just discovered that against all hope and all the knowledge she had in the world, she was powerless to save the man she loved. Uther cried out, noticing a silver glint in her hand as she passed.

She was horrible to look upon. If this was to be his last sight, Agravaine only barely understood the devastation he'd wreaked upon that once-beautiful head. He didn't know how long she'd lived already, with Merlin always her partner in Light or Darkness. But he had at least an inkling now, feeling an ice-cold grip like a vice around his throat and a sharp point at his pulse. Warm blood trickled slowly as he fell back against a column, fear for the first time in his eyes.

The wild thing that Morgana was suddenly stopped, however. So rapid was the change from mad to cool and darkly smiling, that it was somehow still more terrifying.

"Oh, so you think I'll cut your throat and you'll bleed out and fall asleep?" A cool chuckle sent a ripple through his spine as she let the blade slip from her hand. "No, I don't think so. You, Sir Agravaine, are going to do your final duty to the King of Camelot, and give up the name of the one who sent you. Or - I can't vouch for what I might do to you."

"You wouldn't," Agravaine managed to gasp, masking his fear behind a hopeful attempt at bravado. "You're a Healer, you don't kill," he said, with greater certainty.

"Really?" Morgana rolled the word thoughtfully over her tongue, fingers rearranging painfully over his neck. Her voice was sweet and enticing, like a mother's voice, singing her child to sleep.

"Let me tell you a little secret," she said quietly, leaning closer to his ear - "you like secrets, don't you, when you can use them against someone else? Yes, of course. So here's a little secret: I can paint a battlefield red," she whispered with a smile, then leaned back sharply to get a good look at his skeptical expression. Morgana nodded with a mad grin.

"Yes, well - a secret like that usually needs help keeping. After all, somebody must have seen it, if it were true. You know who my secret-keeper is, Agravaine? It's him - Sir Leon," she pointed with her one free hand, glistening ominously with a few drops of the traitor's blood.

Sir Leon stepped forward and bowed. "I have seen her cut down some fifty men. She freed herself of the bandit encampment when we found her. She helped us overwhelm them, barely moving from where she stood."

"Thank you, Sir Leon. But you know the worst part?" Morgana continued, her voice oozing into saccharine, oversweet, poisonous tones. "I could heal them all. Bring them back from the brink of death, extend their suffering. And if there's no telling what I might do to you, believe me, I'll still reserve the worst for Nimue."

Agravaine's eyes flew open.

"Ah, that's it, isn't it?" Morgana released her grip, tossing him against the same column - he fell to the foot of it with a heavy crash.

Now, for certain, the game was up. Agravaine scrambled to a sitting position and stared up at her, catching his breath. "How can you know that?"

"I saw you here, the night Ygraine died," Morgana replied coldly, suddenly no longer mad or murderous, but cold - cold as a dry and hopeless desert night. "You went after Nimue, rightly so. So determined you were to have your revenge, and yet that snake still walks this Earth and breathes this air. She lied to you, or told you her version of the truth - it doesn't really matter in the end. She seduced you, didn't she? Ruined a good man. Pity."

The Healer turned and made her way out of the throne room. "Do with him what you will, Sire," her voice floated back to them.

Outside, Gaius was waiting. "Well?"

"The trouble with deductions is that they're no more than accurate guesswork. And always too little, too late," the Healer said bitterly. There was little of Morgana left in her, it seemed - a hopeless woman losing her last hold on what she loved.

* * *

Uther, weak on his feet, but with an iron will, swore to ride out that very evening to put an end to Morgause's raiders once and for all. And if he could, he'd put an end to Nimue as well, all in one fell stroke. Morgana begged Merlin to call him off, she even appeared before the court and requested a brief audience with the King, and was shut out. She lost all patience then, and disrupted the meeting entirely with a false alarm - a clichéd display of witchcraft in the town square, before the very windows of Uther's war room. A raven, after Morgause's style, large and black with red glowing eyes flapped its wings and circled thrice. The knights and guards ran out into the town with cries of sorcery, and Morgana at last had Uther to herself.

He stood with his back to her, bent over the table, examining the map.

"It is unwise to ride out against Morgause, without preparation, without even a shade of foreknowledge of what her forces may consist of, or how they are arranged. It is unwise, Sire. And you are unwell."

"Morgana! You've been trying to get an audience with me all day, I am to understand. That raven wasn't really Morgause's little show of force, was it?" He turned slowly, eyeing her with a cold hard set of the jaw.

Her head fell slightly to one side. "So Time does make wiser men of fools. I was beginning to doubt it, for the signs are so exceedingly rare." He stirred, more surprised that such a tone had been directed at a King, for she would not give him time to be offended.

"Sire, excuse the bluntness of my delivery, but you don't stand a chance. You don't understand the first thing about Morgause's war."

"Sigan never let anyone into the city who did not have magic. Don't you understand," Uther cut her off roughly, "that I allowed you and your husband to stay here? That, knowing what you are, I have allowed myself to believe that your loyalties lie with me?"

"My loyalties lie: first, with Merlin; second, with Camelot; third, with Arthur. You are not my King. I have no King, Uther Pendragon. You, son of Dragons, you know that they bowed before no King."

Uther stepped back carefully. "They're gone. Dead. They were wiped out."

And Morgana stepped forward once, nodding. "Yes. But not all. You have but a drop of Dragons' blood, yet you possess the strength of many men, you have survived wounds that would have felled your champion - tell me, Uther, what would your people say of how you've treated all the Mages of this land? Witches, sorcerers, paltry little practitioners and charlatans? You took this City from Sigan, populated by only magical folk, and threw open the gates to the nonmagical. And then, when the Purge began, you reduced the population of the practitioners to a mere fraction. You are one of so very few who possess a memory of what we were," she said bitterly. "Your father passed that story to you as his father had passed it to him. What have you done, Uther Pendragon, son of Dragons?"

So she was a Dragon, Uther thought, the last denizen of that great race. The perfect civilisation of Mages that, ultimately, had failed and withered away. And Merlin too? What was he? Aloud, he said, "What don't I know about Morgause's war?"

"You don't understand how the villages on the border fell so quickly, especially when she had no army to speak of before her marriage to Cenred. And now her forces are growing every day. But I've seen it before. You don't need an army to conquer the world, Uther. You need Forty Thieves, or something like them."

"What are you saying?"

"The Forty Thieves almost never attacked the villagers. No, they followed behind the raging crowd of thieves and violent pillaging criminals when the world went to the dogs. Do you know why they followed behind? Because if ever one of the brutes that they herded before them chose to stop, or flee from a surprisingly organised force of the Sultan's army, they'd kill him. Cruel, but effective: you'll be killed whether you forge ahead or turn tail and flee, but at least if you push on you won't die a coward, or mown down by your own people. And every villager who by some miracle survived would be forced to join that crowd. So, you see now, don't you? You lost before the first battle was fought."

Morgana turned to leave as Uther considered her words. "Then how do we win?" he asked.

She turned, almost at the door, and looked back at him sadly. "I don't know," she said, remembering the war of the desert that had brought downfall to her people. And she remembered Master Duban, the Dragon who had abandoned the city and somehow brought an end to the war. What had it cost him, she wondered, to raise Agrabah, beautiful, magical, mysterious place that it was, from those ashes?

"Perhaps, in order to defeat one villain, it is necessary to create another," she said.


	17. She Who Would Be Queen

AN: Trigger Warning - Suicide

Morgana watched Sabi and Mari tending to the injuries last a recent assault had left. But she wasn't watching their technique or their bedside manner: it might be too much to say that they were born with those qualities, but they were certainly raised with them.

No - the Dragon mother watched her young, watched their Magic as they moved, for even if they did not use it actively, it was still there. And that was the very thing that occupied her mind foremost.

Morgana had been born in the days when there was a Dragon City, when the children learned together, from each other. It was a familiar observation that Renegades - the Dragons who left the City and disowned their kind - were most often somehow isolated from their peers.

Morgana had been abruptly torn from her home, before its destruction, when her family fled to safety. Truly the most advanced skills had almost always appeared to be the lot of her elder sister, who from her birth could set a snowy chill into the air. Morgana's progress had instantly slowed when they left the City. Her younger sister, Leyna, did not show any signs of Elemental Magic until she already seemed, by Dragon standards, too old. The effect of having other children to practice with, learn from, show off for, was palpable. And its absence was potentially dangerous.

With Merlin, it had been years before he finally gained full command of his abilities, and it had taken him another decade to grow comfortable with expanding and building those skills. But Mari and Sabi, trapped here in the City where they were forced to control their Magic - though it came to them easy as breathing - they did not even follow the pattern that Morgana had observed with Merlin. Their progress was painfully slow because they had been denied the chance to find their way slowly.

Without the guidance of at least one parent, Morgana feared the damage would be incalculable. They would rush into something without understanding the consequences and the price.

Seeing the Future was perhaps the greatest curse that could ever have been laid upon her shoulders at this moment. Once, that ability had been bestowed upon her as a gift, from the Wisest and Oldest of Dragons to the one he had chosen to be his successor. Now, as Morgana scanned every possible outcome of the current mess, she saw Merlin's death with crystalline clarity. It wouldn't be long now. The only trouble was that she also saw the end of every timeline. In other words, she too would perish not long after Merlin, leaving Mari and Sabi without a guide, and with the potential to leave the world a charred cinder for all their good intentions.

In every timeline save one.

* * *

More and more often now, Morgana was nowhere to be found. Sabi and Mari were constantly helping Gaius care for the injured, and somehow no one seemed to notice. But Morgana locked herself away in her study, sometimes for days at a time, and if the servants stooped to listen at the keyhole, they would hear nothing. Just nothing: no scrawling of a quill against paper, no pacing, no flipping of pages. Morgana had few rare diseases and curses to cure, now that Nimue and Morgause raged an outright war and not a silent one.

She would still sometimes visit the tower, but now instead of standing at the battlements she would come inside almost instantly and stand by the window at night, leaning against the wall so as not to be seen, looking up at the stars as if from within a cage. The nights were long and cold now, and as she stood, the wind streaming in and stirring her hair.

"Morgana?"

Merlin's hoarse voice startled her.

"Yes, I'm here," she answered from the dark, detaching herself from the wall and stepping in front of the open window. Her eyes glowed, but he could see little of her.

"Uther knows what we are. That's an interesting development."

Uther had taken to greeting Merlin a little more coldly, and called him more often to his own chamber to discuss the war and politics and his son. But all pretense was dropped now: they spoke openly of magical things, which first took Merlin completely by surprise.

"Took him months to finally show you his hand, eh?" The mirth in Morgana's attempted laughter was long gone, but it was still a laugh, dry as it was.

"And, I am to understand that Morgause's recent stream of rotten luck has more to do with an unidentified powerful Magic rising in the North?"

"It's not looking too good for her. Apparently she awakened some old Priestess or other, so the stories go."

Morgause was beginning to feel significant pressure from the snowy cold mountains of the North. Not only were storms rolling angrily down and freezing the flanks of her army, but this sudden pull on her attention had wrenched away her vice-like grip on the lands her forces occupied.

Indeed a number of the conquered territories were beginning to rise up against their conqueror. The most successful rebellion thus far had been led by Lyonesse. The seaside land holding had always been peaceful, and the isles just off its shores were populated by simple fishermen - not exactly a band of fearless warriors. The nobleman who had been giving this land by the King for once being one of his best knights and shrewdest advisors had fallen in battle, terribly wounded. He had been old then, but a raw force of nature, and Morgana had set him on his feet again. When Morgause took Lyonesse, she'd taken it by stealth, and slaughtered his entire family in the night, wary of the damage that these Lyons could do by their strength and cunning.

Her mistake was in thinking that this would silence the people the Lyons had sworn to protect, or in imagining that they needed a member of the Lyon family to rally behind. Now they rode behind a blacksmith's daughter - the bold Guinevere.

For all that the witch in the North - many claimed she was ice-cold and terrible to see - was pushing Morgause further into the lands of Camelot, this somehow gave hope to the villagers to turn and stand against her. Though it was still whispered that when Morgause was defeated, would they also have to face this new threat?

"The stories also whisper the name of this Northern Priestess, Morgana," Merlin finished, his tone accusatory. "You might have mentioned you were behind the attacks. To me, anyway."

Morgana stood still for a moment, thoughtful. "I can't think where you might have heard my name whispered," she then said. "Merlin, I -"

"Please, don't tell me how he figured you out, don't tell me you agreed to fight this war as part of some bargain to save your family," Merlin interrupted, with a long-suffering air. "I couldn't care less what he did. Uther was never a threat to us, we only stayed here to make certain that Arthur was raised without that prejudice against Magic. I don't want you mired in Darkness, and I can't tell if you realise it yet, but you're crossing over very quickly."

A candle flared to life behind him, throwing Morgana's features into sharp relief, older and more harsh in this flickering light than they truly were. "Merlin, given what you and I know of Darkness - intimately, one might say - we both know there are worse things than going a little dark every now and then."

Merlin sighed heavily. "I know you threatened Agravaine. I know exactly how you did it, as if I were there myself. That mad look on your face, that changeable character, from madcap to murderer - I've seen it before. And I've seen you Dark. Please, Morgana, understand this: I don't want you to fall into Darkness again."

"I know the way back," she assured him quietly.

"But without me around to remind you, I'm not sure I trust you to take it. Mari and Sabi are still young, they might only make matters worse."

Morgana crossed the room and sat down beside him. "I wouldn't worry too much about that, if I were you. There's been enough Darkness here -" she tapped her temple "- to carry on without me interfering or giving advice. And stop rambling on about dying, I haven't got any intention of letting you go just yet."

Merlin would have laughed, but the laugh, weak as it was, dissolved into wheezing. Morgana tried to stop it, hushing him, rubbing his back and shoulders.

"I do have one question for you," he half-whispered after a moment. "How did you figure out that Uther had Dragon blood?"

"Well he's not an ordinary person. He has the strength of many men, manages to survive wounds that would have put Sir Percival on his back. Even now as he's fading away, there always seems to be some reserve.

"And then there's the name, Pendragon. Their longevity is legendary, and the very story of how Camelot was built is steeped in Dragon Magic. There was, apparently, a survivor who ran to the end of the world when the Dragon City fell, alighted on this hill and settled here. His name was Panteleimon, which is all well and good if you're a member of some ancient race, but here it was an unusual name. So he called himself Pen."

Merlin laughed. "Panteleimon," he muttered, trying the name out. "Not common here at all."

"He fell in love with a local girl, and raised a family with her, and built a town out of the village. And out of the town grew a city, and out of that city grew a Kingdom. But, as you know - we Dragons live too long. So when Pen's great-grandsons were born, he left that place. By then it was already a city - his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons were the ones who made it a Kingdom. He had no place to go as such, so he retreated to the Lake. There he met with a strange Magic that he wanted to learn more about - the kind that moves between realms - and so Pen became the Guardian of the Lake, studying its Magic as well as protecting it.

"And oddly enough, this is where Yen becomes a part of the story again. You see, apparently, Master Yen knew a thing or two about the future - probably from the time you spent in the Crystal Caves."

"How?" Merlin asked. "He'd trapped me there, he couldn't see what the crystals showed me."

"Unless he had a fragment of crystal. They don't break easily, but every time the cave opens and closes, the strain of it breaks quite a few."

"Ah. So there was a purpose to keeping me in the Cave, then? Besides keeping me away from you?"

"Seeing the future," she nodded. "Yen knew certain things were set to happen. So he created Excalibur, in preparation for the Once and Future King. He set fire to the lands of Camelot and burned the city to the ground."

"But Dragon's Fire should have left this place barren for many centuries," Merlin put in.

"Should have, if that was what it was meant to do. Instead, the land became infused with Magic. Ever notice how the trees seem to talk, and even move around a little? It's rare, that use of Dragon's Fire, but it was used a long time ago to make peace with neighbouring villages and help them when their crops were low, even protect them by raising a forest around them. So when the grandsons of the first Dragon returned with their people a few months later, to find the place green and flourishing, they rebuilt Camelot from the ground, and every stone they used made that fortress a stronghold unlike any other.

"But Dragon's Fire is a small thing, compared to the Lake. Yen also trapped a Siren and made her its Guardian. It used to be a fairly ordinary lake, until I went looking for you."

"Lake Nostos was ordinary?" Merlin looked up in disbelief. "It was the Lake of Lost Things for as long as I can remember."

"It wasn't completely ordinary. Then, as now, it was a portal between worlds. But Yen killed Panteleimon and put the Siren in his place. And then -"

Morgana laughed suddenly, shaking her head and leaning forward over her knees, like she'd just realised she'd made a terrible mistake. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry," she giggled.

"Morgana, snap out of it for goodness' sake!" Merlin cried out and shook her. "Come on, I know you're hiding something when you pretend to be insane."

"Dearest love, I'm not pretending," she said with a tearful smile, "I'm realising what a bloody idiot I am. I cast a finding spell at the shores of that Lake, and you were the one I lost. Dragon Magic is about as much a part of this world now as Magic from other realms, it's so old and forgotten, about as Lost as anything could be. I'd been wondering why that spell was so strong," her voice trailed away. Merlin frantically tried to put together what her mind had just then nearly snapped under.

"You _made_ it the Lake of Lost Things?" he realised.

"And consequently, the fact that Nimue fell in love with you at first sight is at least partly my fault," Morgana admitted.

A soft laugh broke from Merlin as he leaned back and wrapped his arms around her. "But you found me."

"Aye, that I did."

The two sat huddled together in the cold night until the candle burned low. "So what happens when Morgause falls to the witch from the North?" Merlin asked. "What will you do?"

"That depends entirely on Arthur, if you think about it. If he continues to fight against Magic and refuses to welcome it in his lands, then the witch has no choice but to defend her way of life. But as to how I'll be doing that - well. That's quite a different story."

Merlin shook his head. "Why, Morgana? Why did you create another villain? When all you needed to do was create a hero for them to fall behind."

The old Dragon looked at him with her deep sad eyes. "No, Merlin. The kind of hero you're thinking of would be a tyrant. I know - I know, the originally meaning of 'tyrant' was not necessarily bad, it was simply someone who seized rule for themselves because they thought they were better. And so often they were better, too. But in this case, it would be a wolf in sheep's clothing. It would have to be someone charismatic, yet ruthless. I'm no hero. Instead, without being one, I gave hope to hundreds. Now they have Arthur, and Guinevere the Bold. And there are others like her, of low birth, with great spirit. Lancelot, for instance, and Gawaine. Alright - so Gawaine is a Lord's son - but he's been denying that since he left home, so he can have his way if he likes."

"What a mess," Merlin muttered.

"Aye, that it is."

* * *

It was agreed that Morgause's main support in this war was Nimue. Gaius put forth a slightly less popular opinion, suggesting that in fact Nimue had been using her as a pawn. In either case, Uther was prepared to ride out directly and kill the Lady of the Lake. And even though Morgana and Merlin both protested and claimed it was a fool's errand, it had been too much to hope that Uther would call off the attack. He was not a patient man. Indeed, the moment Morgana was called away for a complex injury, Uther sprang into action.

When Morgana rode out from Camelot only an hour later in search of the knights, still hoping to catch them, she hardly expected to find that the small force had been entirely overwhelmed. Morgause's paid brigands had been even nearer than their sources reported: the armies had collided at the Lake, and now there was nothing left. Fifty brave knights led by their King, aided by one of the most powerful wizards in the world, all dead at the banks of Lake Nostos.

And yet, Morgana did not see Merlin among them. Tears clouded her sight, and a cold wind stung at her face as she dismounted. She searched, in vain, for the living, but gave up that hope when she came upon the cold body of Uther Pendragon. "Long live the King," she whispered, and shut his eyes.

Slowly she rose, then caught sight of him at last: Merlin lay on the bank, water lapping at his fingers. Her throat closed - what spell could have killed all the knights, and possibly even hurt a Dragon? She swore under her breath: she'd grown far too accustomed to being invincible. As she scrambled down the bank over the bodies of the dead to reach him, the Lady of the Lake rose from the waters in a splash.

"Don't even think to come near, you can't stop me now." She threw her head back a little, eyeing Morgana carefully. "I never knew people as twisted as you were capable of real, true love."

Morgana's measured response was far too calm not to be dangerous. "It is the one redeeming feature of this terrible world of ours. Trust is void, forgiveness scarce, understanding rarer still, and yet we are given this one gift. Did you ever love, my dear?"

"I loved the King," she hissed.

Morgana dipped her head in surprise, a cold smile on her lips and a hard glint in her eye. "Did you? Liar. You loved the golden future of Albion, the world where Magic walked hand in hand with the ordinary people, and you wanted to rule over that empire."

"And you and Merlin destroyed that golden future," Nimue snapped at her, "Uther has hunted and killed our kind, and you turned your backs on us. You have betrayed Magic!"

"No." Morgana's voice was quiet and cold, and the very tops of the trees crackled as a thin layer of ice appeared on their branches. "You betrayed Magic. Trading one life for another, creating one life in place of another - that is Forbidden, because that is Magic without rules. And Magic without rules has unpredictable consequences. You did not tell Uther that Ygraine's life would be the price, you led him to believe that all lives were valued alike. But that's not true, is it? To create a bright future, you must sacrifice an equally bright one. And now I begin to wonder - what of Ygraine's illness? Did you create that as well, to ensure her death?"

A twisted smile ghosted over Nimue's face, and did her features no kindness. "Uther would never have agreed, at such a price."

"_But it was not his choice,_" Morgana snarled back. "You might have at least told Ygraine."

Nimue started, shook her head as if to clear it of the words she'd just heard. "You're mad."

"You think she would have refused? You didn't know Ygraine, then. Motivated by her desire to make Uther happy, to produce an heir to the throne of Camelot - especially an heir with as bright a future as you would have promised!" Morgana shook her head. "And now you would blame us for the Purge? For the slaughter that we could not stop? For years we hid who we were, living among our enemies, trying to raise Arthur to see past his father's bigoted rage, fueled by his heartbreak. Can't you understand that you are destroying that future now?"

But Nimue would have none of that - she waved it aside, water mirroring her movements like a shadow. She sighed, and looked past the witch on the shore to the one over whom she now wove her most powerful magic. At length, she spoke again.

"Merlin came to me, asking me for my help to take down Sigan's bright city. Sigan never threatened me, but Merlin - " Nimue stopped short. "He was kind, he was wise, he promised a future unlike any I could have dreamed of. He promised to teach me Magic I could not even begin to imagine."

And he had taught her Magic beyond her imagination, Morgana realised. He had even been alarmed at how rapidly she picked it up. Even for someone who controlled a portal to other worlds, and drew power from a natural source, the level of complexity had been astounding, possibly even dangerous. Morgana was beginning to understand very rapidly where this line of thought was going. To Nimue, at least, Merlin had been more than just a teacher. She was going to take Morgana's place in his mind, and Morgana stood in a trap. If she dared do as she had planned all this time - either make a bargain for an antidote with Nimue, or try to take the poisoned wound herself somehow - the real Morgana would die.

She shook her head and cut the Siren off.

"Sirens are beautiful, and they are dangerous. But before now, none of them had ever taken a life. Before the moment you offered Uther this bargain, you were innocent. And now, you've only stepped farther into Darkness. You've never used your power to trick the man you loved, Nimue. Let Merlin go."

"No, I am afraid I cannot," Nimue said with a smile. "You must know that the Lake is a portal to other worlds, and that a poison from another realm has no cure in this one. But I have the cure. Better that you let me take him now, than leave him to die, in pain and alone. I want you to understand that everything you love, you will lose."

Morgana went pale, trembling with rage. "I killed no one dear to you," she whispered. "But here is something you should understand."

She walked directly across the waters of the Lake, ice forming beneath her feet with every step, until she stood facing the Siren, eye to eye with her own reflection. Behind her on the banks, Merlin shuddered a little. The Siren lost her hold over him, and shimmered back to her natural form.

"What have you done?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all," Morgana replied softly.

"You... made him - forget? What did you take from him?"

"Everything. Myself." She stood upon the surface of the lake, defiant. For the first time, the Siren noticed that wherever Morgana had stepped, it was frozen solid. "I promise you, no matter how many people you drag beneath the surface, no matter how many drown in these depths, you will always find it cold."

She stepped back onto the banks, and turned once more to face the bewildered Guardian. "The more I lose, the more power I have, and the less control I have over what I can do. Believe me, it takes great effort for me not to kill you now, and soon I may not be able to stop myself. Never cross me again, it may be the last thing you do."

* * *

Morgana had found deep in the forest an old and gnarled willow tree, perfect for a cloaking spell to hide under. For a moment, as she watched Merlin resting against the trunk, she fought with herself. She wanted to call her children, to give them a chance to say goodbye, if the worst should happen. But she didn't want them to see their father die.

"Anika, Leyna," she whispered. "I need you."

In the silence, as she watched over Merlin, her sisters appeared beside her. They weren't real, they were simply her own mind conjuring the images of the dead, but they were real enough for her. "Call Sabi and Mariana," Anika whispered to her.

"Morgana, consult the futures," Leyna added. "Perhaps there is a way to save him."

"I have, Leyna," Morgana sighed. "You know I can't see past my own death, but I can see that every outcome from this point results in not only Merlin's death, but also mine. Every outcome but one."

"Will you take that chance?" Anika asked.

"I don't know. I don't know what that outcome is," she admitted.

Anika and Leyna exchanged glances. At last, Anika sighed and spoke again. "Remember what Mother and Father told us, before they left? When you have to make your final choice, think only of what is most important to you."

Though their forms melted from view as the sisters said goodbye, Morgana could still sense their presence. She called her children, and let them into the protective dome that had been woven over the old tree, and together they all sat crosslegged on the grass, for though outside the air was wintry cold, here it may as well have been a late evening in spring. And only through the thin hanging boughs, above, the stars were distant burning points of light in the cold sky.

* * *

Morgana watched, a blackness stirring within her, as Merlin lay at the foot of the ancient weeping willow, the boughs of the tree acting as a shelter that both hid and and protected him from the rest of the world. It was a beautiful protection spell: the furry catkins shimmered with a silver light, and it almost seemed as though the tree had been enclosed in a glassy dome. Sebastian sat holding his sister close as their father paled and his breathing slowed. They had already seen their mother refuse to heal people, and they knew what that meant - there was little hope.

But Morgana must have seen some sign of hope somewhere, for she sat cross-legged, hands resting palm-up on her knees, eyes closed, her breathing slow and even. She usually didn't need to clear her mind to see into the future. Mariana took to watching her, for she enjoyed seeing her mother's features peaceful as if in sleep. Sabi was rather more suspicious: if his mother was trying that hard to see into the future, she was trying hard for something in particular, he warned Mari quietly. Morgana had often explained to them that she could see events by their probabilities, and if she was looking for a hidden one, the chances of that future happening were low - but she could, in theory, manipulate them. The cost of such an act, she had mentioned, was usually staggering.

Suddenly she snapped back to full consciousness. Sebastian and Mariana quickly turned back to their father, before she realized they had been staring at her. Morgana eyed them intently for a moment, and they even thought they might have been caught at last. Instead she rose and walked over to wrap an arm around both her children. "No matter what happens, I'll always watch over you," she whispered, kissed both of them on the crown of the head. Then she rose and walked right out of the protection spell.

"Where is she going?" Sabi whispered.

Mariana wondered a little at her parting words. "There is something she doesn't want us to see."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Sabi. She'll be back, though, she always comes back."

"But what if she doesn't?" Sabi interjected quietly, calmly apprehensive as he observed his father's shallow breathing.

Mariana shook her head. "She'd never leave us alone in the world. But at the worst, we always have each other, don't we, Sabi?"

"Think we'll make it?"

"Of course we will," Mari reassured her brother warmly, though perhaps she did not believe it herself.

Their mother hid just behind the line of trees, though she knew they could not see her even if she stood before the willow. Quickly she knelt at the foot of one of the pines and began to mutter something, eyes closed and hand outstretched. It was a summoning spell, and within seconds a double-ended candle appeared balanced across her palm. Her eyes snapped open as both ends lit. Morgana let it hang in the air as she fumbled in her winter cloak, retrieving from within her glowing heart. "Forgive me, Merlin. Sabi, Mari - I'm sorry," she whispered, picturing their memories of her, and clearing them away - erasing any trace of herself. They had a mother once, but she had died - and now, if Morgana could help it, they would never lose their father.

She whispered her name over the candle, naming herself as sacrifice for Merlin. The heart contracted sharply in her hand in protest, and even tried to escape - a matter that disturbed the old Dragon exceedingly. Even as she tried to replace the heart it struggled against her, refusing to permit what she was about to do.

Morgana remembered the words of a wise old Dragon, whose deathbed she had held vigil over - now a very long time ago: "Be not afraid, little one, for Death is but another world."

What possessed you to give up? - she thought. _How sure did you have to be that Death was, indeed, another world, when all my life I've seen no proof of that whatsoever? It is by definition a place from which no one can return._ Even now, though she had lived perhaps as long as he had, she marveled at her body's will to survive - her heart, fighting her intentions. Just what was it in the world that could possibly have broken that old Dragon's spirit? Or was she really different from all the Dragons who had come before her?

She won out in the end, against her heart, and the moment it was replaced, her world went black. Morgana collapsed in the clearing.

But just past the line of trees, under the willow, Merlin opened his eyes to see his two children staring at him.

* * *

Author's Note: I deeply apologise to anyone who might have gotten to this point before I put the trigger warning above the text. It's taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that this really was Morgana's attempt to end her own life, and even the next chapter indicates she didn't expect to survive. I am very sorry if this has caused anyone any distress, I'm sorry you might have walked into this chapter without warning, and I promise that in the chapters I am working on now, I will be dealing more with the issue. In the next few chapters, Morgana's emotional state rather defines her actions. I would be very honoured if you could stick around for that. Tentatively in about 23-24, I will be attempting to have someone talk to Morgana about her choice, and about why she made it.

Once more, I'd like to express my deepest sympathy and sincerest apology to anyone who might have happened upon the trigger without warning. It took time for me to realise how deep I'd gone into this, and time to try to get out of it. I spent a long year dealing with chronic disease when most of these chapters were written, constantly fatigued, nearer to depressed than I'd care to be ever again. This inevitably bled into the story, I didn't realise how potently. And then I was afraid to face it.


	18. Death Is But Another World

"Hello, dear." The voice was warm and kind, and startlingly familiar. Morgana sat up sharply, opening her eyes to a lovely glen in a pine forest. There was a warm breeze, stirring their green needles just enough for them to seem slightly perturbed by her sudden awakening. She had been lying propped up against a large mossy tree trunk, ankles crossed, as if dozing in the soft sunshine - with absolutely no recollection of how she got there.

Morgana rose to her feet smoothly, turning like a spring, and looked back at the tree she'd been leaning against. She cast a panicked glance across the glade, where a black shape lay crumpled beneath the pines. Auburn hair spilled over her face in a way that hid it, but a cold shudder went over Morgana as she recalled precisely what she had done.

"Hail, O Minevar!" the voice exclaimed, and Morgana turned sharply to face it at last.

"Oberon," she breathed. He had been the Minevar when she was a child, he had named her his successor as he died, and now the most befuddling thing was that here he sat, crosslegged, on a large stone in the centre of the glade. "Hallucinations, I sincerely hope, brought on by the poison."

"No, Little Dragon. You should know better: you talk to dead people your mind created copies of. What's that about? Anyway, hallucinations don't make this meeting any less real."

"What about her?" Morgana pointed sharply to the crumpled figure. "How can she be real?"

There was something distinctly wrong about that side of the clearing, she realised now. It was dark, save for the silver light of the stars, and indeed she remembered it being a wintry night. But here she stood with the Minevar, and the day was beautiful, and the air smelled of spring. She balked.

Oberon laughed at her expression. "Little Dragon, so you remember who the Minevar is among Dragons?"

"Eldest and wisest."

"And how long were they rumoured to live?"

"Centuries. It is said you were over a thousand years old when the Dragons fell."

"Morgana, to become a Minevar, a Dragon must die. One cannot truly be immortal: it takes less to support a magical manifestation than a life-form. Magic consumes the soul, craving us and our power just as we desire the thing itself, as it destroys us. It craves to be used, to be channeled, stretched and twisted in new and exciting ways, and we are seduced by it. So it forms copies of us, as it were, for we are all mortal, frail, and fallible. And that is the nature of true immortality - Magic is marked by the strength of your own character, your boldness and thirst for love, life, and knowledge. You can't recuse yourself from it, in neither life nor death. Now isn't that peculiar?" He smiled a bitter little smile.

Morgana stood still a moment, peering into the night where, just barely, under the silver dome of the weeping willow she could make out three figures standing together. "Was I wrong?" she asked suddenly, turning back to the Wise One.

The Minevar, too, could see them. He shrugged absently. "Magic that takes life cannot be undone. Their memories of you, or rather the absence of those memories, has been sealed by your apparent death. But Dragon Magic has found no impediment to be insurmountable, at least with time. Time, which you now have."

Morgana flinched, understanding the depth of loneliness that stretched out before her: seeing futures unfold at her feet as threads of magic, white and gold and black and blue and purple and green and red, running in a network all around her, weaving, ducking, intersecting. There was no end to them in sight, though only last night she had looked out and seen only blackness, for she could not see past her own death.

From this moment, she could only ever be a passive observer in her children's lives, and in Merlin's. From this moment, she could see the Future until - until no discernible end. The only end was in the fact that the probabilities became more and more difficult to determine farther along the chain, but she could see anything. Yet, as before, she could not see the endgame.

"What am I to do with this - _gift_? Grandfather," Morgana shook her head, "I've spent centuries, pulling along on a string an entire future that has cost us all dearly, in the name of rebuilding a civilisation in the image of Dragons."

"Then you know not to attempt such a thing again, at least for a time," Oberon smiled. "We have achieved much, all in all, but moving between worlds freely, creating our own dimensions - that remains as yet undiscovered. Not to say it hasn't been done: we have created worlds and been unable to find them; we created the Infinite Forest, though I can't think what it's useful for. We managed to find a series of portals to other worlds, but the moment we left the Lake, or the Blackwater, we were unable to make the trip again. My dear, if I know you, you will never be bored. But you are right, from now on you're on your own."

He turned as if to leave, then paused and considered something a moment longer. "Listen, promise me you'll never let yourself be alone. That's a terrible way to spend one's immortal life."

He didn't wait for a response, and once more, as many years ago, a golden fiery Dragon took his place and shot up into the air, and vanished. The wintry night settled in around Morgana, who, for a second time, vanished into darkness.

And then she found herself on the cold ground, staring up at the sky.

* * *

It was impossible to wipe out all memory of yourself in a city where you'd spent the last two decades helping people, tending to them when they were sick, delivering their children. Morgana had successfully wiped out all memory of herself as Merlin's beloved wife and Sebastian and Mariana's mother, but the Court Healer Morgana remained.

Instead, Morgana corrupted her own story mercilessly. People remembered Morgana much as she had been, cold and practical with a carefully guarded heart. There were rumours, rumours that Merlin and Morgana had a kind of tentative romance, which both seemed to pull away from. Merlin's son and daughter had been apprenticed to her, and together with Gaius she taught them much of what she knew.

Then, on the day of the match between Uther and the Black Knight, she was taken - vanished without any sign of struggle or trace to hint at where she'd gone. For three months, the patrols rode out in search of her, and returned empty-handed. A year later, she reappeared herself. This was the account historians would tell in the coming years: Morgause had taken the Healer and attempted to turn her. Just when she thought she'd succeeded, and let Morgana loose on Camelot, the Healer instead sold out one of the witch's greatest assets - her uncle Agravaine.

It was difficult to tell whether she'd really turned against Camelot or not. Perhaps unmasking Agravaine had been necessary to secure Uther's trust. According to a few records of the council meetings following this discovery, Morgana had arranged with Uther to lead an attack against Nimue. In a game of chess, Nimue was very much Morgause's Queen piece, it seemed. But the result of that battle was that Uther fell in battle, and Nimue, though apparently no longer able to move outside the Lake, still lived. That very night, Morgana had vanished from the city.

Rumours were steadily spreading throughout the land that Morgana was a witch. How else, after all, could she have survived all that Morgause had put her through? And then survived the escape? And she had always been a remarkably capable healer.

The fact that the Healer had magic became an evident truth when she was seen on the battlefields, snow and ice at her command, driving Morgause deeper and deeper into Camelot.


	19. Guinevere The Bold

Not far from Nemeth, Arthur rode full into a force of Cenred's men. They'd come out nowhere, disorganised, with no clear leader, hiding in the bushes, in the hills, and up in the trees, waiting for someone to pass by. They dropped down around the knights like spiders from ceilings, and Arthur, though he traveled with fifty knights, found himself outnumbered. They had ridden right into a trap that had been set for them the night before Agravaine's unmasking. That had been months ago - what Morgause's men were still doing here, Arthur couldn't imagine.

This was the siege of Nemeth.

But just as the knights drew their swords, prepared to fight to the utterly inglorious death in an ambush, a fierce beat of horses' hooves sounded in the distance. Cries went up into the air up the hill overhead, and were abruptly cut short by a ringing and clashing of swords, as the enemy immediately surrounding the knights of Camelot cast quick glances over their shoulders. Arthur sprang into action, and his knights followed suit.

In short time they could see their rescuers - a small band of men, some on horseback, armed with swords and spears. Some were on foot, wildly charging at the soldiers, with the most bizarre weaponry in hand. Some were even armed with pitchforks. Those armed with bows and arrows kept the higher ground and fired volley after volley, while the Essetir fighters had little to return fire with. They were, at the heart, mercenary men, and each carried his own preferred weapon. A few had crossbows, but crossbows took much longer to reload and rarely fired off a second shot in the same time an archer could loose five arrows and drop three men.

They managed to cut a retreat out of the tight circle of the siege, where Arthur's forces regrouped with minimal losses, and met the men who had helped them fall back.

Arthur approached one of them, a tall well-built character who seemed to have their general respect. "I believe we owe you our thanks," the young king said.

"Not at all," the man said, turning. "You owe her -" he pointed over Arthur's shoulder at a rider who had just arrived, astride a white horse. An osprey, embroidered in simple grey and green thread against a cloak of blue, graced the knight's shoulder. But from beneath the helm spilled dark curling locks of long hair. "That," the man continued, "is Guinevere of Lyonesse."

"And what is your name?" Arthur asked, though he could hardly take his eyes off that osprey - he'd only ever seen them in Lyonesse.

"Lancelot," the man replied. Arthur grasped his hand warmly.

"Thank you all the same, for your loyalty and your support," he said, and made his way to the rider to thank her.

"Lady Guinevere," he called out.

"Not me," she called back with a slight smile, removing her helmet and dismounting. "I'm no Lady."

"Forgive me, I hardly know the proper way to address the person who just saved my knights from certain death," Arthur smiled. "I wanted to thank you, properly, for your timely assistance."

Guinevere looked at him more closely, curious. "You're welcome," she said. "Now you'd best be heading back to Camelot."

"And why is that?"

"We can handle ourselves."

"But Nemeth needs our help. That is why I have come."

"So you ride out to help another Kingdom, but not your own?" she snapped, half in jest.

"I am to be married to Princess Mithian of Nemeth," Arthur replied simply. "It's not about helping them when my country is burning, it's about my duty to Camelot. They have men who need training, and I can provide that."

"Then Nemeth needed your help before they were surrounded," she answered sharply, but Arthur stood his ground under her withering critical gaze, and responded.

"Nemeth did not need our help. That is why they are surrounded, but their lands are not taken. There was a traitor at the heart of Camelot, and one of our trusted advisors devised a plan to flush him out. Accordingly, I rode out with my men, ostensibly for Nemeth, but we turned back. The traitor sent word of our plan to Morgause. Cenred moved his army to meet us here, while Camelot mourned the death of its King."

Guinevere stopped. "King Uther is dead?"

"He fell in battle at the Lake a fortnight ago," Arthur replied heavily. But he understood that the people of Camelot did not all have much love for the King. Many had friends and family who had practiced magic and perished in the Purge.

"Cenred also fell in battle. Several months ago, the first time the Snow Queen attacked," Lancelot informed him, having approached the two as they spoke. "While he was here, he sent out parties to hunt us and attack the villages. Since then, they've mostly stayed to hold Nemeth."

"Snow Queen?" Arthur echoed.

"It's what we call her," Guinevere smiled. "Although it's hard to imagine there's anything up there to be Queen of but wolves."

Lancelot shrugged. "Even wolves need to eat."

Guinevere laughed lightly. "I suppose. Some call her the Ice Witch."

"We need to find a way to break the siege," Arthur remarked thoughtfully. "But we can't do that with fifty men."

"No," Lancelot agreed, "not even with all the combined forces of Lyonesse, and that could amount to anywhere between one hundred and one hundred twenty able-bodied men. Of them, only your knights would be able fighters."

Guinevere shook her head in utter disapproval. "We'll never win any battles that way, not against the army of Essetir. They're all brigands and thieves. Lancelot, we have to do something different."

"Gwen," he cut her off irritably.

Lancelot obviously had heard this before, and still disagreed, but Arthur was willing to give any idea a chance. "What are you suggesting?"

"We leave the horses and hide out in the bush, like they do. We attack at night, quickly, at the edges of their main encampments - fast, devastating strikes, aimed at doing the most damage and suffering the least ourselves. We cut down as many of their men as possible and retreat."

"And you don't like this plan because -?" Arthur turned to Lancelot.

The mountain of a man shrugged. "It will take too long."

"But even if we attack once, to break through the weakest part of their circle," Gwen pressed, "they may well follow us into Nemeth."

"That's true," Arthur agreed, "and not only: Gedref was for a long time under Camelot's control, before we returned that land to Nemeth. I've been there. It was said to be one of the easiest parts of our kingdom to get lost in. The country is magical - the very land itself is more strange than the woods that surround the City of Camelot. There's no telling how it would welcome us."

"It's guaranteed to be less welcoming to men of Essetir, but I see your point," Lancelot admitted. "The best policy, when it comes to strange lands, is generally to avoid them."

It was agreed that they should put off planning until after dinner. The meal was warm and welcoming, knights and villagers all dining together, with a king in their midst. Simple men sat with their heroes, and heroes sat with the people they fought to protect. They let go of the stiffness of duty and rank, and spoke freely with each other.

Arthur was particularly taken with Guinevere. He asked her where she'd learned to fight, for he'd seen her on the field and instantly known her for an artist with a sword. Gwen instantly softened, from a general to a real, warm person.

"My father taught me," she replied, with a fond smile. "He was a blacksmith, self-taught. He knew how the sword moved best, as if by some instinct. And he taught me. I wanted to be around Father as much as possible. Mum said it was wrong for a girl to play with swords. She wanted me to be a lady-in-waiting to one of Sir Lyon's daughters. But when the bandits came to raid our village after Father died, when there was no one else to protect what little we had, she didn't argue. And who taught you to fight like that? King Uther?"

"Yes, and my tutor, Merlin. Merlin taught me trickery - how to disarm the opponent, or how to fool them into thinking that I was rubbish at swordplay until they let down their guard."

Gwen laughed. "He doesn't sound like a knight."

"No. No, he wasn't. He taught me diplomacy and military strategy in ways my father never would have. He taught me to find my way using the stars as a guide, and he taught me the history of Camelot and the surrounding regions. Honestly, he looked too frail to even hold a broadsword, but once you put it into his hands, he moved like lightning."

A sudden thunderous approach of a single rider set everyone back on guard. Lancelot sprang from his seat and peered into the dark. "It's Mallory," he pronounced, much to the villagers' relief.

"Who's Mallory?" Sir Leon asked quietly of Gwen, who sat across from him.

"He's a thief. And he's stealthy and crafty. And he knows Essetir like the back of his hand. He's the reason we know about Cenred's fall, and the siege, and any approaching forces."

Mallory dismounted before his horse stopped and landed lightly, trotting forward a few paces. He had an enviable lightness and style - easily a thief, Arthur thought.

"Well?" Lancelot asked him sharply.

"They have a new King now," Mallory informed them. "King Lot of Essetir. Hand-picked by Morgause. Apparently she's marrying him. Also, it seems they have a history - and a son. The marriage would legitimise the boy. So, in effect, Morgause is marrying a King and getting an heir. He's on his way to take control of the forces at Nemeth now, with reinforcements. He plans to move in to take the kingdom."

"How did you figure all this out?" Arthur exclaimed, utterly surprised.

"I know a friendly bishop in the court. Got him so soused he was sure he could sing out his ears. The information is accurate, I swear it."

Lancelot sighed. "Well, that doesn't leave us with too many options. Either we break through the ranks now, or we wait for King Lot to wipe us out."

Gwen protested instantly. "We can't. They'll close in on us, we'll never make it through."

"You need -" Mallory flopped onto the grass by the fire and somehow producing a cooked chicken, seemingly out of nowhere, "help. From someone who can help you."

"Such as?" Lancelot snarled, somewhat annoyed.

"Someone who hates Morgause and likes - _you_. Or hates Morgause and doesn't care about - _you_," Mallory said, punctuating the last word in each sentence with a rough jab in Lancelot's direction.

"You mean Camelot," Gwen said.

"I mean you lot," Mallory said, tearing into the chicken ravenously. "I'm a simple thief. I can go anywhere: Camelot, Nemeth, Essetir. Doesn't matter. I'm only helping you because of _her_ -" he nodded at Gwen. "'Cause she's pretty, and smarter than you, Lance. And listens to good sense."

"So you want us to go find Morgana and ask her to help us?" Arthur asked, hoping there was something to clarify.

"The Ice Witch, yeah," Mallory confirmed without the slightest trace of hesitation, then turned to Gwen and asked, "Who's this joker, then?"

Sir Leon choked down a laugh. Gwen nervously glanced over at the King of Camelot, but Arthur only shrugged. Most bandits new his face, but villagers - almost never. The irony of it never failed to amuse and slightly distress him.

"And do you know where to find her?" Arthur asked.

"Dining with the wolves up in the mountains," Mallory said, with absolute certainty.

* * *

The wolves were no legend, not a fairy story meant to frighten children into bed. They were real, and hungry, and wild. Mostly they avoided people, but winter was harsh in the mountains: the better part of the mountain range fell into the domain of the Fisher King, all of which was now known as the Perilous Lands.

The Fisher King, Pelles, had been one of those few great leaders in recent history, who kept his people out of the War of Many Kings and protected his lands himself, through Magic. The scale of his ability was impressive even to Merlin and Morgana, who had taken care to set aside a lesson for him alone when teaching Arthur the history of that war. They focused mainly on the diplomatic three-ring circus that King Pelles put any of his enemies through, playing them off against each other, but they did not fail to mention his particular use of magic. He kept his kingdom entirely self-sufficient, healthy, and peaceful for the extent of his rule - until the day he was wounded. But Merlin and Morgana never talked about how he'd suffered the injury.

In order to avoid Morgause's army, and draw as little attention to themselves as possible, Arthur set out with Gwen, Lancelot, Mallory, and Sir Leon. They trod a careful line along the border of the Perilous Lands, trying desperately to avoid crossing it. On the other side they saw the wasteland, blackened as if covered in ash and soot, a cold wind whipping dust across the dry cracked ground. As they came nearer to the mountains, the wasteland became a moor, black and green, reeking of the damp.

At this point progress became more difficult. The moors stretched up a good distance into the mountains, and the steep slopes seemed insurmountable. Already, they had lost Mallory's horse to the treacherous ground - earlier, in the quicksand pools, as they passed along a sluggish stream that marked the border. No one showed any particular love for the thief. He rode briefly behind Gwen until he whispered something nasty into her ear and she knocked him to the ground. Mallory would have then ridden with Lancelot, but apparently he had taken offence for Gwen's sake. So Mallory walked, grumbling and griping to himself, though his progress was not much slower than the riders'

Now, they had found there was no avoiding the mire: the stream flowed through them, for the border was demarcated by something else - possibly old markers that were faded now.

When Arthur's horse misstepped and began to sink and struggle, Gwen instantly pulled him off the saddle. Together, the two tried to guide out the faithful steed, but to no avail, until Sir Leon lent a hand. Snorting and puffing, the horse suddenly found its way out and trotted off in the direction whence they'd come, where there was stable ground.

"How did you do that?" Gwen asked, gasping for breath.

"This area of the Perilous Lands was always a moor, even before the curse," Leon said. "My father's lands are not far from here. You can't always save horses, but sometimes you get lucky."

Arthur turned to him with interest, never having heard Sir Leon speak of his family before. "You were born here?"

Leon shrugged. "No one really lives here anymore. The mists are supposedly haunted -"

"Supposedly?" Mallory croaked. "Haunted? They're bloody terrifying! People just vanish, end up walking into trick puddles that are really the mire, sucking them in -"

"- And the land is nearly barren," Leon cut him off. "My father kept the land as long as he could. I was raised here, I know my way around."

"Then lead on," Lancelot grumbled from behind.

"What, on up there into Ghostland?" the thief protested, only to suffer a heavy slap to the back of the head from Lancelot, which silenced him instantly. He scowled at the big man, rubbing his crown.

The knight paused thoughtfully, then said, "Leave the horses, and take the lances."

Progress was slow. The men prodded the ground with their lance to find solid ground, and jumped from patch to patch. But as they moved up the mountain and the air grew colder, Sir Leon turned and called back to the others that they must be getting close: it was never this cold up here. Frost had formed on the surface of the water, crept over the tufts of grass. They regrouped to start a fire and rest for the night, but before they could manage any of that, the ice began to move.

It crawled over the ground, underfoot and behind them, and a quiet snow billowed down the mountainside. Before they knew it, it fell thick and soft, and covered the ground, though somehow they did not feel much colder than before. There was no wind to speak of.

"Witchcraft," Arthur breathed. Somewhere above them, a wolf howled in reply.

"She's here, alright," Mallory grumbled, preemptively ducking away from Lancelot's glare.

"Quite right," a solemn voice said. Arthur instantly leapt forward to look for its origin: it sounded so much like the Court Healer, like Morgana teaching her lessons on herbology, but also hollow and cold as the winter.

"Where are you?" he called out.

"Just here. Just in front of you. The ground is safe to walk on now, it's mostly ice. Take care, don't tread too heavily, but come up a little way."

Arthur looked back to see the men exchange looks nervously, and Guinevere calmly looking up at him - apprehensive, but not afraid.

"If I'd wanted to hurt you, you would all have sunk in the mire by now," the voice rose again, this time with a twang of impatience in it. "Come up."

"You know, it's never too late to kill anyone," the thief muttered behind them.

"Scared?" Gwen teased.

"Scared means alive, m'lady," he answered, more solemnly than ever before.

The advance was certainly easier now, and they made good time. The group came upon a plateau not much farther up the mountain, where Sir Leon stopped abruptly.

They were surrounded by wolves.


	20. The Wolves In Endless Winter

"See what I mean?" Mallory whispered to Gwen. "Scared is alive. Now excuse me, I've got my skin to save."

That same hollow voice - quiet, though it carried well - arrested his movement just as he'd turned to leap off the plateau to scramble and roll down the mountain. The wolves eyes him with a wistful hungry expression. "Oh, don't worry about them, they don't bite. Unless provoked." Mallory shivered, but stood rooted to the spot, looking about for the woman who had spoken.

Morgana stirred from the stone, her cloak grey and black as wall of rock against which she leaned, hiding her away from their eyes.

"Lady Morgana," Arthur bowed stiffly, stepping forward.

"King Arthur of Camelot. I believe congratulations are in order. And condolences," she added grimly. "Why have you come here?"

"We need your help," Gwen answered, seeing Arthur hesitate.

The witch turned her world-weary gaze on her slowly, taking her measure. "Guinevere the Bold, of Lyonesse. You seemed to be managing quite well on your own."

"King Lot is taking over command of Morgause's army."

"Yes, it's a problem, having two generals lead a war on two fronts. Morgause is rapidly becoming a toothless snake within Camelot, but King Lot is a highly regarded warrior. He'd make a good ally."

"Ally?" Arthur echoed skeptically.

Morgana waved her hand vaguely. "If you see him on the field of battle, don't kill him. It would be short-sighted. He's set to marry Morgause, as I understand the situation, but he was no friend to Cenred either." Morgana shrugged. "I wouldn't expect him to blindly follow her without question. At the present, she promised him Nemeth, so he's willing to fight for her."

"Why should I take advice from you?" Arthur drew closer, hand on the hilt of his sword.

But Morgana regarded him calmly from where she stood, without so much as a flicker of fear. "You're welcome to ignore me same as your father, but at some point even he decided it was better to take heed."

"And he paid for that with his life," Arthur snapped hotly.

"Have you forgotten, I'd been trying to discourage him from that fool's errand?" Morgana returned calmly. "The whole of the council tried to dissuade him, even you."

"Then why did you flee the city?"

"Flee?" Morgana scoffed. "I never fled. I left. For years I have called Camelot my home, but it is no place for a witch. I could not help from there, so I traveled to the mountains."

"You call this help, pushing Morgause into the heart of Camelot?" Gwen cried, enraged.

"And you, Guinevere? Would you ever have been able to rise up against Morgause, if she hadn't turned her attention elsewhere?" Morgana's gaze seemed to bore right through her, old and patient - almost reptilian in its slow track from the King to her. "A blacksmith's daughter, an upstart taught to fight by an amateur, with no more to her name than boldness and the respect of her people, and the chance to defend what she believes in. It's so much more than others have."

"Do you defend your people, Morgana?" Arthur cut in.

"Mine? I have no people. My people died a long time ago," she said.

Arthur stepped back, somewhat confused.

Morgana sighed and stepped forward into the fading daylight. "You think that I have people to protect. You are right, I would give my life for Camelot. But simply having Magic does not make me the protector of Magical people. That seems to be the delusion both Nimue and Morgause suffer under. The truth is, Magic does not unite us. We want different things, we lead different lives. Morgause and Nimue have no right to proclaim themselves as protectors of anyone or anything. Not while they use their gifts to hurt others."

Gwen instantly moved, closing the space between herself and Morgana, startling the wolves. "And you, Lady Morgana? Does your magic not hurt others?"

The witch's ancient gaze rose to meet Gwen's wide-open eyes, and a cold smile crept into her countenance. "Your fields are frozen, but your people do not starve. Your lands are free. Whatever damage my winter has done, it can yet be undone. Whatever damage Morgause has wrought upon Lyonesse, that is, sadly, permanent. She does not have the knowledge to undo her curses, nor the patience to form her spells in ways that can be reversed."

She sighed turned her attention to a nearby wolf, crouching down beside it and scratching it behind the ears. "If you want my help in defeating Morgause, or King Lot, then you have it. But until Camelot accepts Magic within its borders I will never be your ally. And I will never bow before you, nor refer to you as Sire or Your Majesty."

"You will never attack my people."

"I have no interest in doing so. Like these wolves: I don't attack unless provoked. So have a care, Arthur, and do not provoke me."

* * *

When the group moved back down to the foot of the mountain, the wolf beside Morgana snarled and instantly transformed into a human.

"You expect us to help you?" the woman asked harshly.

"I can handle myself, as you know," Morgana replied without a hint of offence or even interest in the creature beside her. "What is the price you would ask of me, for your hospitality?"

"We want the curse over these lands broken. Or at least we would like to be able to cross to the other side of the mountain and not be shot dead."

Morgana smiled wanly. "Yes, curing the Fisher King may yet prove less of a challenge than letting you cross freely to the other side of the mountains. And that says volumes. But at least you were able to coexist with his people somehow."

"His magic kept us alive. But now, the land has been dying, and yet he cannot die. Morgana, please - if anyone can help us -"

"You shouldn't be asking me if you're requesting this as a price," the Dragon cut her off sharply. "And a Wolf Queen, more so than any other Queen, should never beg," she added grimly, rising from her seat and moving down the mountain to follow the others.

"If you know so much of rule, of what it is and what it should be, why did you not take the crown?" the Wolf Queen called after her.

Morgana turned around, walking backwards a few paces. "What use is a crown to me? To fight wars? To risk my life for some grand, unrealistic ideal? I no longer have people to call my own and no one to protect. I know of no one worth rebuilding my past life for, flawed as that was. Were there but one person I could see as even remotely like me - even that would not be enough."

The witch shrugged and went on her way down the mountain to rejoin the ones who had come to find her. By the time she found them, they had set up camp and started a fire, and only Sir Leon sat wide awake keeping watch. She paused for a moment, then came up behind him and gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Leon," she whispered as he shifted quickly and reached for his dagger, not having heard her approach. "Go on, get some rest. I'll keep watch."

The knight nodded and gave her his seat on the log, curling up by the fire. Morgana sighed deeply, watching her breath turn to vapour in the cold night air. Solemnly she rested her hands, palm-up, on her knees, and closed her eyes, weaving a dome overhead that kept away the mists and provided some warmth for the five as they slept.

That morning Arthur woke with a start to find Morgana, awake and alert, with sunken eyes, staring into the flames. The fire burned lower than before, but not much - she'd kept it alive through the night. The others woke to his sharp movement

"I have a condition," the witch said. Arthur opened his mouth to voice a protest, but she held up a hand sharply, silencing it in his throat. "More like a test, really. If I help you, you must trust me to do what is right, and you must never regret your choice. So: you will travel through the Perilous Lands to the King's Tower. Your task is to cure the Fisher King of his wound."

Leon, who had been up for some time, collecting fresh firewood, reeled a little behind her.

"Easy, Leon," Morgana hummed soothingly, having sensed the movement. "I will accompany you there. I grant you that the Perilous Lands are indeed perilous, as every single historical record suggests, but we should be able to make good time. Better time, in fact, than creeping along the border like frightened little mice. Although, mind you, I adore mice."

"Yeah, playing with them," Mallory grumbled harshly.

"Wherever did you find this comedian?" Morgana snarled, but then threw a warm smile in his direction. "I like thieves and beggars and pirates. They're far easier to deal with than honest men - predictable, self-serving, cowardly, and practical. Smart - like I should have been -" her tone suddenly turned bitter and spiteful "- strictly interested in their own survival. Learn from this scum while you can, gentlemen, and lady. If you can't be like him because your pride is wedged like a stick in your gullet, then at least learn how he thinks. You'll find it useful."

Mallory snickered and dropped a low bow to his very toes before the witch, who kept her disgusted half-grin fixed on him, her bared teeth lending her expression as wolf-like a character as her shadowy companions, who had circled round the encampment in the night.

"And how do we cure the Fisher King?" Gwen asked.

"The Fisher King has a magical item in his possession," Mallory spoke up suddenly. Morgana's features softened, she inclined her head in a slight nod. "Called it the Cup of Life. It can cure almost any wound, but it seems that it has been of no help to him."

Lancelot turned to stare at him. "And you know this how?"

The thief shrugged. "Morgause asked me to steal it for her."

"And you failed?"

"I failed to heal the Fisher King," Mallory answered, after a moment. "I didn't steal it."

"So the thief has a heart after all," Sir Leon remarked coldly.

Mallory shot him a crooked look, shaking his head a fraction at Leon, as if he'd misjudged the matter entirely. "He told me he could be cured either by the sons of his enemies or by his own sons. He said, last he knew, both his sons were dead. And he doubted that the son of the man who cut him down would ever come. Beyond that no one would remember the story of the Fisher King."

Morgana threw up her hands. "Well! He was certainly right about that. But for the better part of the past lifetime, no man of Camelot - or woman - has been able to cross the Perilous Lands. The land itself has been keeping them out." She passed a critical glance over them all, and added, "This should be very interesting."

Interesting was not the word any sane person would have used for the long trek. They were accompanied, first of all, by the wolves. They moved ahead, indicating where the ground was safe, and occasionally circled back to Morgana, nuzzling up against her hand - always a sign for her to send forth the ice again. The wintry snows followed behind them, spreading silence over the moor. As uncomfortable as it was to walk in that dead kind of quiet, it still seemed a taboo to break it.

And then, there were the mists.

They kept coalescing into phantom shapes, people walking a distance away, or passing very close. Gwen could have sworn she saw a child dancing, and would have thought she were losing her mind had Lancelot not confessed that he too had seen it. The others looked to the witch, who shrugged and spread her hands as if to say, _what did you expect of haunted ground?_ She did add, however, "In a short while you might imagine they are calling to you. Ignore them as best you can."

Mallory turned full round to stare at her, like no one else dared. "What do you mean, might imagine?"

They had all stopped, and now looked back at the two - the thief who was walking into something he wasn't prepared for, and the witch who wasn't telling them everything. If even a thief shuddered to be in a place like this, surely it wasn't a good place to be. Lancelot cleared his throat quietly and asked, "I thought you were here before?"

"Never the moors," Mallory explained, not taking his eyes off Morgana. "Only the quicksand pits and the venomous snakes, the bones of fallen soldiers raising swords and spears from the ground and attacking, the land heaving up in quakes. What is this place, Morgana?"

"Plays tricks on your mind. Depends who you are, you may find one or the other worse. Depends how much you lost."

Mallory seemed about ready to run for his life, but Morgana crossed the gap between them in a sudden movement and caught his arm before he could move. "But don't run, you might fall into the moor. Don't run, they'll catch you faster." Something seemed to pass between them, as the green eyes met the grey. Then Mallory broke away and stalked off, waving to a nearby wolf that instantly leapt before him to lead.

"You know each other?" Lancelot asked suspiciously, lingering behind as the others set off.

"Push on," Morgana instructed somberly, and she too began to move.

Lancelot was not to be ignored however: he drew nearer to her as they walked behind the others. "How much did you lose?" he said quietly.

Morgana did not answer immediately. "I heard them on the mountain," she said. "The mists get thinner there, but for me they were populated with all the memories of all the people I failed. The wolves are good company, but they can't block everyone out."

She walked forward another few paces in silence, then added, "Sometimes the mists give you a glimpse of the future, if you haven't much to regret in your past. It's not a true future. A potential one, but only the potential worst."

Lancelot would have asked what she saw in the future, but a cry up ahead interrupted his train of thought.

Arthur had fallen into one of the puddles. He was up to his waist in the water now and sinking fast, for all of Leon's efforts. Morgana quickly reached forward and grasped his hand, pulling him out as if it required no effort. The water receded and stopped bubbling. "What happened?"

Gwen, frightened and in tears, stood shaking. "It was me, it was my fault. I saw a little boy drowning - I thought I saw -"

Arthur turned and wrapped her arms around her, hushing her. "It's alright, Guinevere. There's no one there."

Morgana looked back at the puddle, a faint smile tracing its way over her lips. "A young boy, golden-haired, and crying - yes?"

Gwen nodded. "Did you see him too?"

"Once. Not here. He was playing in the river not far from home," she recalled, "out with his father on one of those rare occasions when the affairs of state were not too pressing." Arthur looked up at her sharply, but Morgana continued.

"He almost drowned in that river. His father dragged him out, then carried him home in his arms - on foot the whole way, though it would have been easier and faster on horseback - and brought him to me. I must say, he needed more care than the boy. Could have died of pneumonia. But the boy stands before you today, alive and well."

Gwen looked from Morgana to Arthur, realising the connection.

"I have always been a Healer," Morgana said, seemingly only to him. "The Court of Camelot gave me a place to keep my books. In Camelot, I wouldn't be burned at the stake for treating sleeplessness with valerian root, relieving pain and fever with willow bark."

Arthur's jaw clenched. "You used magic," he leaned inched forward threateningly.

"And what of it? What if I hadn't, all those times when there was nothing else that could save people? You think in our day and age fluid in the lungs can be cured easily? Your father would have died - _you_ could have died. But I wasn't careless, believe me. I used magic far less than I should have, and helped far more than I imagined possible." Morgana stepped away sharply and moved on into the mist.

Lancelot watched her receding form, sharp against the milky mists. "We'd better get after her," he muttered, scanning the surroundings. For a moment he caught sight of two more figures in the mist - illusions, no doubt. But as he too began to walk, the fog cleared about them. He first recognised Gwen, in a long, richly embroidered white gown - a wedding gown. She stood with a knight, looking up at him with a gaze he'd never seen before. And then the knight removed his helmet -

The wolf had come out of nowhere and growled sharply, warning him to stop and look away.

"Come away," Morgana's calm and quiet voice resonated over his ear. "Come away." She had doubled back to him, noticing that he'd wandered off, and stopped, transfixed, staring at a patch of fog.

Lancelot stumbled after her. "She was - she was with -"

"Yes, I know."

"How do you know?" He sobered suddenly.

"I can see every possible future. Which is why this place is possibly worse for me, because it shows me only my past. I already know what the future holds, and could hold."

Lancelot shook his head. "It can't be. She can't marry the King, that would be ridiculous - and impossible."

"Are you so sure?" Morgana stopped with him, gently laying an arm on his shoulder. "She is a hero among her people. And Arthur is a King unlike any other: he cannot be true to his people of he isn't true to his heart. Strange to think there are such people when characters like Mallory exist," she chuckled sadly. "Now, there were but two people in the world who could prevent such a union, and one of them died not long ago. The other - is you. But if Gwen falls in love with Arthur Pendragon, there is nothing you can do about that. Remember, the future is never set in stone. Don't assume that what you see in these mists is true."

* * *

The landscape changed entirely, as if logic had no part in its construction. They left the moor for dry, lifeless soil, and then, having passed through that narrow band, discovered a desert - cracked ground and sand and dust, but cold even in daylight. Mallory's description of quicksand pits and snakes and small earthquakes was true enough, though Morgana somehow managed to hold the quakes when they happened.

"The King's Tower - Pellas' fortress," Morgana shouted at last, having stopped ahead of them. It stood bright against the grey landscape, a fortress that had once been gleaming white in the morning sun. But Morgana stopped them here, not far off.

"This next bit is called the boneyard," Mallory warned before she could say another word. She gave a curt nod. When they reached the army of the dead, Morgana cast a look over them and shook her head.

"This needn't be a problem," she said. "They were soldiers of Camelot, and they will follow their King."

"Why are there soldiers of Camelot here?" Arthur asked, confused.

Morgana tipped her head slightly to one side. "Remember the lesson on King Pellas and his diplomatic skill?"

"The king who never fought a war."

"He never needed to fight. But he also did not help his allies with troops, only with food and metalwork. Your grandfather Constantine was not particularly pleased with the arrangement. He tried to conquer Pellas' lands."

"But if Pellas had no army," Mallory began putting together a question, which Morgana answered before he could get any further.

"Pellas had control of the land. They died here when the trees turned against them. No trees here now, but once it was a beautiful wooded plain."

"But there is an entire army here - I thought they only came to the border?" Arthur asked.

"They did come to the border. And Pellas, knowing what Constantine had come for, met them there. But when Pellas questioned his ability as a warrior and challenged him to single combat, Pellas brought them back here."

"My grandfather defeated him?"

"No. He claimed it was a fight to the death, though that was not what they had agreed upon originally. And Pellas would never have agreed to a fight he didn't know he could win, he wasn't the type. But he was the kind to show mercy. And your grandfather was the kind to see it as weakness."

"What are you saying?" Arthur asked. "Answer honestly, Morgana."

The witch cast her eyes down a moment at the fallen soldiers, then looked into the young king's eyes and said, "He attacked. Struck Pellas when his back was turned, stabbed him viciously in the leg. A ragged wound, one he could well have died from."

Arthur and Morgana stood eyeing the fallen as behind them Mallory twitched, apprehensive. "How exactly will they know to follow their king?" he asked.

Morgana moved closer as if to answer him quietly, but then shoved Arthur forward right into the field of bones. The others burst forward to help or to drag him back, but Morgana had raised her arms and threatened, with a mere look, to raise a barrier. Arthur stood rooted to the spot as the bones stirred and knit together to form skeletal soldiers, free of armour but armed with swords and lances. Morgana looked over her shoulder, watching them as they levelled their weapons at Arthur.

"You have to ask them," she said at last, "they were your grandfather's knights, not yours - you have to ask! Excalibur!"

Arthur drew his sword and plunged its point into the ground, kneeling down with his head bowed. But no blow fell upon him, no weapon cut the air above him. He looked up to see them all, an army of bones, kneeling, the hilts of their swords or the butts of their lances out for him.

"And now you have an army of Undead," Morgana said with a smile.

"Are they still aware of who they were?" he asked, after a moment's pause.

"They are. And you can release them, if you wish. But you have their loyalty by blood magic."

Arthur looked back at her then, startled.

"Yes, yes. Your grandfather, and your father after him, used Magic when it suited them. Constantine bound his most loyal knights to his service so that they would not betray him. He did not trust anyone because he did not need to trust them. And with even a few drops of Dragons' blood in your family tree, that kind of bond does pursue men to the grave. And while I cannot say how humane it would be to command them in this war, I can say that you will always have their loyalty."

"But not by choice," Arthur finished. "This can hardly be a humane treatment of other people."

"Magic rarely is, when practiced without accounting for the consequences," Morgana replied. "Releasing them of their duty may be short-sighted, and from a practical standpoint I would be inclined to council against it."

"And from a humane standpoint?" Arthur asked. Morgana said nothing. "I thought as much." He turned back to the army. "Thank you for your loyalty and your service. Your duty to Camelot has been done. You are free to go."

It might have only been wind, but the wind sounded much like heavy sighs and groans of relief, and the creaking of bone as the skeletons dissolved into dust.

"That may have been a little premature," Mallory said, panicking. He pointed upwards at six or seven winged reptilian creatures, large as houses. "Dragons!"

"Oh please," Morgana snarled, annoyed and a little offended, "they're not Dragons, they're wyverns. They've only got two legs, look at 'em."

She stood tall while the others kept to the ground, hiding behind rocks where they could, trying to blend into the sand. The wolves circled them and bared their teeth, growling up at the approaching reptiles.

"Nothing to be afraid of," she said softly, as she raised her arms from her sides. Golden light played over her, flickering like small bursts of lightning. "I'll show you Dragon."

In moments it stood over them - a great Dragon, large as half the King's Tower, red-gold in the pale grey light. The wyverns reeled and retreated before the face of this new, large being that could snap their necks like twigs if it wished. And then the Dragon spoke.

It was a sound like a distant roll of thunder, quiet and calm, in a language so ancient it seemed to move the stones around the ones lying facedown in the sand. And when the wyverns, crying pitifully and cringing even in flight, turned, and fled back to the tower to roost, the ancient beast raised its wings - silent as silk - and pushed off into the air. Arthur and the others looked up in time to see her wheeling in the cold dusty wind, a lively spark in the dead landscape.

Mallory sighed, unwittingly attracting the others' attention. "What?" he asked, realising they were staring at him. "Like you've ever seen something so beautiful?"

The Dragon fell back to the ground like a bird of prey, but its final descent was in a cloud of grey and black, and at last Morgana stood just where she had been before the transformation. "Well, last walk - just into the castle and up to the throne room. Who's still got the nerve?"

Oddly enough, Mallory was the first to rise. "I've been in there before," he replied with a shrug to Morgana's look, equally amused and questioning.

"Alright then," she muttered, and with a wave of her hand sent forward the wolves. Snow billowed around them, blanketing the ground in silence.


	21. In The Hall Of The Fisher King

If through the entire trek from the mists on the moor to the gate of the Fisher King's fortress, Sir Leon had been silent, at this point he looked positively morose. Morgana kept a sharp eye on him on the moors, but he showed no sign of the mist's effects - all in accordance with his claim of being raised on the Greenmoor. The wolves, too, seemed more wary about him. They did not approach him the way they dared approach others. They did not approach him the way they approached Morgana, either: they nudged her hand and flattened their ears as she stroked them, fearless. Leon they circled closely, but never within reach.

The wolves ushered the group of six into the castle, and from there Mallory led the way to the King's halls. "So," Arthur muttered, coming up closer to the witch, "you expect me to be able to heal him?"

Morgana's mouth twitched slightly to the side. "I do hope you can help him. It would be more than I can do."

They stopped at heavy double doors, which Mallory approached nervously, raising his hand to knock. He didn't need to: the doors opened with a weary old sigh. The wolves had accompanied them from the entrance, and now surged forward into the room, milling about an ancient wooden chair that stood facing the large windows.

In the depths of that chair, hidden from view, sat a small frail old man. His body was desiccated and dark-looking, as if his drying skin had taken a grey-brown tint, but it was only a trick of the light. The wolves shepherded the group before him, and as they stepped around they saw his bright eyes glimmering out at them. Full bright and intelligent, if perhaps feverishly active, the piercing blue gaze darted over them, commanding stillness and silence.

If only the eyes now held the formidable power of King Pellas, even so that power seemed boundless. There was something alarming about him, about the stark contrast between the decay of his body and the strength of his spirit. Here was the King who had never fought wars, because he never had to; the first real spymaster, who had informants halfway across the world - some believed, even in Agrabah; the first Mage since the long-forgotten time of Dragons. The Magic that held his lands was strong, but poisoned, like his sinewy frame. It longed to burn through the fragile body, tethered there and desperately trying to break free of the ancient man's hold. Whether it meant to undo its terrible consequences or lay waste to the what remained in the world, it was impossible to say.

"Morgana!" His brow smoothed with joy. "How long it's been, my Dragon friend. Fine flight! I fear my wyverns had forgotten you, but I see my wolves have not."

The leader of the pack, a large silvering black wolf, moved forward and suddenly leapt to human height. In the wolf's place stood a woman of commanding appearance, dark-haired and amber-eyed, and wild. "King Pellas," her husky voice softly brushed past their ears, "we remember all things."

"Indeed, the clans of Greenmoor never forget. Thank you for leading our guests safely through the mists. Mallory, a pleasure to see you again. We weren't expecting a return, after your first trip through the Fallen Army," the King remarked.

Mallory smiled - a genuine, honest smile wholly unexpected on a thief's face. "I couldn't resist a visit to your halls once more."

"I have my doubts. The castle is sometimes no less dangerous than the lands, especially for would-be thieves, and yet you took nothing. Might you have returned to correct this mistake?" the King asked, with a sly smile on his lips.

Mallory's expression hardened almost instantly into slightly offended seriousness. "Sire, I would never steal from a good man."

The Fisher King laughed, a sudden thunderclap of bitter mirth resounding through the hall, a hint of what that laugh might have been before the curse. "Strange that you should call me a good man. A King and a sorcerer - I have far too much power to be good, but I am flattered all the same. Ah - King Arthur, I am to understand, by that show of fealty by the army of bones I had on my grounds. An Undead Army, and you released them from your service -" the Fisher King shook his head disapprovingly. "Tsk-tsk, very shortsighted! You might have found them useful."

Arthur straightened out proudly and replied with a strain in his voice, "King Pellas, with all due respect, I hope never to need an Undead Army to enforce my rule. I want the men who fight for me to do so of their own free will. They fight for Camelot, and for everything we believe in."

The Fisher King's head tilted very carefully to one side. A few more degrees' incline would surely see it topple, it seemed. "And what," he said, with a calm and suddenly deeply interested expression, "do you stand for, King of Camelot? You are fighting a war that pits the innocent villagers against those with magic at their command. This war is a consequence of your father's actions, yet you are still fighting it, why? You could lose so many - already have lost - so many. I see Guinevere the Bold is not unmoved, by her reaction. How many friends has she lost? How many loved ones?"

Guinevere hadn't expected to draw any attention to herself, standing just behind Sir Leon and Lancelot. Her eyes darted over to meet Arthur's concerned glance for an instant before she shied away.

He stood still taller as he turned back to the wounded king and answered: "We do not fight against those with magic, but rather against those who would use their gift to hurt others. Camelot stands for justice, King Pellas."

"Justice," the ancient King mused. "Hm. Be careful there, King Arthur. The Lady Morgana who stands there in the shadows behind you will be the first to defend Camelot for the sake of Justice - tempered with Wisdom and Mercy. And she has faith in you, apparently. But in giving her support to Camelot, she too will use her not quite paltry gifts to hurt others. We may claim that the soldiers of Morgause's army are not innocents, but they are innocent of Morgause's convictions and intentions, more likely than not. Worse still, you'll find that even Morgause is justified on some points."

"But not in killing," Gwen broke in before Arthur could say the same.

Pellas sighed. "This is a serious discussion for serious people, and, I do believe, one that should be had - over dinner. Will you join me?" He moved to raise himself from his chair but quickly desisted. "You'd think after all this time I'd remember," he mumbled with a wry smile, shaking his head.

* * *

Dinner was an interesting affair, consisting largely of - fish. The lands were no longer able to support crops, dry as they were, and whatever product they yielded was bitter, deformed, and inedible. Little was imported into the Kingdom, as King Pellas had in his time fostered few lasting alliances. Few remained after the great power at the foot of the mountains dried away, especially when the land became nearly impassable. There was a garden within the castle walls that still produced some essential fruits, vegetables, and greens. Apparently Morgana, on one of her travels to these lands - she and the King were amusingly vague on the time and circumstances thereof - had carved out a sanctuary of sorts, a garden protected from Pellas's curse.

"So, where were we?" Pellas exclaimed, his eyes burning with a renewed vigour as his chair wheeled itself to the head of the long table. "Ah - Justice! Yes."

"You were saying that Morgause is justified in her attacks on Camelot," Arthur caught on. "How can she be justified in sending an men armed with enchanted weapons to slaughter the villagers? Weapons charmed not to miss their target! Securing not only lands belonging to Camelot, but to our allies. How can she be justified in killing innocent people?"

"Do not confuse the justification of a war with the justification of her position - that is oversimplifying the situation. Unfortunately, in our day a position is all well and good to have, but a war may give results."

"If her position is to restore at least a tolerance of magic, she's not doing it the right way."

"Isn't she?" Pellas asked. "Has she not stopped to rebuild the villages at the border?"

"And we burned them," Gwen muttered quietly. Arthur shot a glance over at her, surprised. "We burned them because they were not our villages."

"And the fields, the crops?" Pellas looked over at her pointedly.

"Morgana's frost took care of that."

The witch shrugged. "It seemed like the best way to force her troops back. But she wasn't particularly good at keeping the crops alive."

"You've never been known to take prisoners," the ancient king shrugged. "Or been keen on politics. But Morgause doesn't simply want a union between her magical world and your - pardon me - grey and boring normal one. Magic could help resolve any number of problems: transporting people throughout the kingdom, wherever they need to go in mere seconds, bringing healers to villages who have none, restoring a failed crop in a bad year."

Arthur shook his head. "When she was my tutor, the Lady Morgana taught me the value of reason and testing. Magic is untested and untestable. It is, as I understand, a highly individual gift. We can't know how to control it."

"You're not the one who needs to control it," Pellas argued. "Sorcerers, wizards, witches, healers - they need to control their gift -"

"But I have to vouch for it with my own people. With all respect, King Pellas, I cannot do that. My people will never follow Morgause, she is using her gift against them."

"Magic is not a weapon -" the King interrupted.

"But it can be used as one," Arthur insisted. "And I cannot ask anyone to take that risk. Would you ask that of anyone?" He leaned forward over the table. "All the people in your kingdom - where are they now, King Pellas? What happened to them when your magic failed?"

The Fisher King sighed heavily and set down his goblet. "The only people left are the Clans of Greenmoor." He chuckled weakly. "They were never really subjects of this kingdom, of course. Greenmoor has its own Magic, its mountains, and its Wolves. The others - some stayed for a little while, but there wasn't much to live off of. When the land started turning, I encouraged them to leave. I would not be seen as weak, but I would not put them at risk. They are - around and about, these days. Vagabonds, travelers, and thieves, I'm sure. Some made honest lives. Some sought out the haunted grounds where no one else would go. They thought they'd seen about everything they could expect when, as you say, my magic turned against me."

Then the Fisher King leaned forward to meet Arthur's gaze. "But it didn't turn against me. You're right, Magic is dangerous. But you're wrong about that. I was arrogant, and I had been warned that the consequences would be unpredictable -" he threw a glance at Morgana here, as she drew back from the table and excused herself. "But you're not quite right."

"Then tell me what happened," Arthur said.

Gwen, at this moment, also rose and followed the witch, who was now staring out the great window onto the moonlit desert. "Why is he doing this?" she asked in a low whisper.

"Hm?" Morgana half-turned her head. "Pellas, or Arthur? Ah. Pellas is not only a cursed man, Gwen, he is also potentially a great ally to Camelot. He won't blindly ally himself against Morgause, however. For all her faults, she does make a compelling opposition."

"How can you say that?" Gwen drew back sharply.

"Oh, she'll never lay a finger on these wastelands, such as they are - she is no threat to him. And he is no real threat to her, trapped in this ruin. She has Camelot surrounded, Gwen. Arthur has few allies strong enough to hold against her for very long. There's Bayard - he's being soundly beaten all along his borders. Nemeth is surrounded. Half the smaller kingdoms are looking to join forces with her because so far her record in battle is quite spectacular. She has weapons the knights would never use, and her men don't fight fair. If Pellas were inclined to help in any way, it would be unwise to not to accept his help, or at least to ask for it -"

"But we can hold them off on our own!" Gwen exclaimed.

"Indeed, it's quite impressive: you have been remarkably successful. Don't you wonder, sometimes, how?" Morgana turned sharply to face Guinevere the Bold. "Tell me, don't you wonder that you might be leading men and women into battle who have a certain edge? Something that, despite their love for their home and for the King, may yet draw them to her side? Particularly if the King should continue to treat magicians the way he does."

"And how is that?"

"Oh, Arthur may not have raided their homes and burned their loved ones in the years since his father stopped ordering such raids, but he doesn't trust them. The fact that villagers are still permitted their own form of justice, stoning a suspected witch or burning her at the stake - that should speak for itself. And even now, you wouldn't dare tell him who fights in your ranks, would you?"

Gwen would have held the witch's gaze - she should have, it couldn't be that hard to lie to her, surely - but looked away.

"You wouldn't want Arthur to know," Morgana remarked sadly. "Which is a shame, of course, because these repressed sorcerers are the ones who will win the war for him at the end of the day."

"I suppose that includes you?"

Morgana smiled. "Uther would never have accepted me as an ally, so I agreed to become a villain. Yes, it was an arrangement - Uther saw it as a way for me to save my skin, though it didn't need any saving, and I saw it as a way to help Camelot. The Dark Lady Morgana. An interesting concept, as I don't find it an unfamiliar role," she added, with a bored expression - or was it not bored? Was it, perhaps, grim and desolate?

"The price of seeing every possible future and being unable to stop terrible things from happening in order to prevent worse things: one tends to get a little dark."

Gwen sighed and looked up to the moon as Morgana went on.

"Anyway, it's not so much a matter of alliance, as Pellas prefers to let wars play themselves out without his help. But he does have a long-held grudge against Arthur's grandfather, and he needs to be convinced that he can trust and respect a Pendragon before Arthur offers to present him with a cure."

Back at the table, the King was telling them his story. Gwen, at Morgana's urging, returned and listened hovering beneath the nearer window, while the witch herself remained out of sight.

"Your grandfather was once an ally," Pellas began, "an uneasy ally, but not an enemy. He defended his modest holdings by maintaining a strong offensive, and often asked me to provide support in the form of troops. I didn't have much of an army to spare - a small armed guard for show, largely, and knights enough to make a tournament worthwhile. They were highborn lords who each could lead an army of their own - these men were not to be trifled with, being sooner advisors to me than warriors. Men of cunning and great skill.

"Once I did grant him a favour of sorts: I offered him a spell of his choosing, and he asked for one that would ensure the loyalty of his men. Constantine was by no means trusting, and Blood Magic, even if used by a skilled sorcerer, requires very precise wording. Constantine was quite unconcerned with that requirement. The result, as you saw, was disturbing.

"The second time, I refused his request. I had explained at length the dangers of the Blood Oath and been ignored, and I would never offer him that kind of gift again. He pressed me for troops, and I still refused. As it was, I already supplied him with steel and grain and all manner of fruit and vegetable, even cloth - the Gielinor silk was said to be the finest in the world. So he took his army to my borders and challenged me, called me a coward, claiming that a man who would not fight for his people was less than a man. So I admitted him and his knights to my lands, and accepted his challenge to single combat."

The Fisher King paused to drink from his goblet.

"I disarmed him. In full view of his men and all the noblemen of my kingdom and their ladies. He had fallen, and yet as I turned, he cried out that surely it must be a fight to the death and my mercy was yet another sign of my weakness. Before I knew it, I found a dagger in my leg. Pardon me, you never knew your grandfather, but Constantine was not an honourable man. And for me - I was a fool. Many years ago, one wise witch and her husband had warned me against binding my magic with the land, but I was greedy, greedy for power and knowledge and for the chance to share it with my people. I wanted my realm to be a land of plenty, I wanted to be able to provide my people with the same protection that the Greenmoor offered its own, but without the price. I thought I could protect my own, but instead I fell, and my lands and magic protected me.

"The ground buckled under Constantine and nearly took him. He had the good sense to run, but the better part of his army was left behind - it was my Blood Magic, after all, and my lands saw it as an abomination, the way it had been used. The fields outside the castle walls tore themselves apart in clouds of dust and rock and swallowed those men whole."

Pellas sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Then I foolishly attempted to heal myself. There's a reason most can't do it: pain can be remarkably distracting. There are times when pain can make one more alert, even pushes one to survive, but there are also times when it becomes impossible to keep a hold on reality. Tell me, Morgana -" he twisted round in his seat "- is it at all easy for you?"

Morgana's voice carried absently from the window, "Took the better part of a century to learn. And I sleep like a dead thing after particularly serious injuries."

"Well, there you have it. Even Dragons need the better part of a century to master such a skill. I do believe I only made things worse. And if that weren't enough, Morgana tells me that the state of my lands keeps me in this chair," he scoffed. "It's a circle that feeds on itself. I've made a right mess of things altogether."

"How would one break such a cycle?" Arthur asked. Pellas looked over at him, still consumed by his grim recollections, taking the measure of the young King of Camelot before him. Arthur was just coming into his own, and it would be wrong to judge him on the past mistakes of all the Pendragons.

"I must say, I am impressed that you released those men from the Oath," Pellas mused. "You are just, and merciful, and you may yet succeed."

For a few minutes, he tapped thoughtfully at the base of his goblet and stared into the air. When he spoke again, he spoke quietly, meticulously listing the rules of the next exchange.

"I will ask you a question, you must answer it with a single word. If I accept your answer, in turn you may ask me a question, which I will answer in the same manner. There is a single question that you can ask me, which will reveal to you the Cup of Life. Is this agreeable to you?"

"One-word answers?"

"One word, yes."

"Why?"

"Because lies are created by words upon words, whereas a single word is a single truth. It may be difficult to choose, but not impossible, I assure you. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. Your father hated magic. Why?"

"Betrayal."

"Interesting. I would have said, 'ignorance', but I gather you must be referring to Nimue. You may ask me your first question."

"Why would you say ignorance?"

"Precedent."

"You mean that my grandfather's ignorance created an abomination, and so it set the precedent for your judgement of my father's actions."

Pellas smiled a little sourly, acknowledging that, perhaps, he might have been a little quick to judge, but answered also with a single word: "Yes. Second question: why did you come here?"

"Curiosity."

"About?"

"Magic."

"You mean to tell me you are open-minded," Pellas translated flatly.

"You mean to tell me you do not believe that?" Arthur asked.

"Raids," Pellas replied.

Gwen looked over at Morgana sharply. "What does that mean?" she hissed.

Arthur looked back over his shoulder, but it was Mallory who answered her. "During the Purge, Uther ordered his soldiers to raid the Druid villages in his kingdom."

"But Arthur never led those raids!" she protested, but Arthur would not meet her gaze. She desperately looking over at Morgana for a confirmation, yet the ancient witch had cast her eyes down and shook her head just slightly. "That's impossible!"

"You burned and raided those villages, you killed the people who lived simple and honest lives, did you not?" Pellas asked.

"Father."

"Your King gave you orders, did they involve the killing of women and children?"

"Indiscriminate."

"And you followed those orders. So, begging your pardon, but taking you for someone open-minded is not in my current set of mind."

"Injustice," Arthur said.

"The raids? Yes, they were a great injustice, they were murder without trial, without evidence of witchcraft, and even less of the evils that could have come of it. But why did you follow those orders if you knew them to be unjust?"

Arthur paused a moment, then gave the same answer he had before: "Father."

Pellas's brow knit for a moment, as he sat back, perplexed. "Father," he repeated softly, giving the word more thought.

Arthur rose determinedly from his seat and stood before the old king. "Forgive me, but I can no longer play this game of one-word answers and guaranteed truths. Not for one moment since I entered your halls have I lied to you, and I trust you to understand and judge for yourself that what I tell you now is also the truth, on my honour. There is no way to express in one word what it is to be a King's son, save in that one word. You, too, were the father of two sons. But you were not just a father, you were the King, and your word was Law.

"You owe me at least three questions. Your sons wanted to impress you, did they not?"

"Yes."

"If they questioned your judgement, how would you have reacted?"

Pellas looked up with a strange light in his eyes. "Proud."

"What?"

"I couldn't be more proud of them using their own heads," Pellas said, though strangely, in spite of the conviction in his voice, there was a waver in his words all the same.

Somewhere within the last three questions, a light had appeared on the table, silvery blue, and a chalice appeared at the elbows of the two kings, but they didn't notice the change. Gwen gasped and pulled Morgana's sleeve, but the witch only nodded once, then motioned for her to wait. "It's not quite there yet," she whispered, and indeed the chalice seemed to flicker in and out of existence.

"My father would have locked me in the dungeons," Arthur muttered heavily. "In fact, he did, a few times." He shook his head. "I didn't know then that the knights would destroy everything, that he indiscriminately ordered them to kill sorcerers, whether they were women or children. He created a world of fear, and everything I have seen since, of magic and sorcery, it almost always was an exception to his rule. Yes, there were times when sorcerers sought to destroy everything we held dear. And yet, more often than not, on my father's command we had destroyed their family and their way of life."

Pellas eyed the young man for a long moment.

"You know, I lied about that. Not completely, but at least a little," he said at last. "Proud, I would have been, but not at first. I would have been angry. I would have thought my son took me for an old fool, losing his touch. It's the arrogance of being a King that gets into your head over the years, and the arrogance of being an old fool that tells you the young can't possibly know better."

With an ethereal ring of metal and a bright glow, the chalice finally seemed to make up its mind about its presence, and made itself known to the two kings.

"Well, I guess it's time," Pellas said, surprised.

"That doesn't seem right," Arthur remarked. "You said there was a single question that could reveal the Cup of Life - what did I ask?"

"Sometimes Magic is absurd," Pellas shrugged good-humouredly.

Arthur shrugged and filled the chalice with water. Morgana muttered under her breath, almost inaudibly, "You asked about his son." Gwen had stepped closer to the table, but Mallory and Sir Leon both cast a glance in her direction.

Arthur stepped around to Pellas's chair and passed the cup to the old King, who accepted it graciously and added, before he drank, "You should know, I've tried this so many times - if nothing comes of it, don't blame yourself, but rather blame me for still imagining there might be truth to fishwives' tales." He smiled wryly.


	22. The Coming of Magic

Nothing happened.

Arthur's hope was overwritten by worry, but the Fisher King didn't seem at all surprised. He sighed lightly and waved a dismissive hand to the side, muttering something about the changeable nature of curses. Arthur eyed him with a growing confusion.

"Dark magic is strengthened by our regret," Morgana's voice quietly broke the silence. It was perhaps the first time that she'd spoken since their arrival. The dark garb in which she was clad, and the darkened locks of auburn hair bound up close to her skull accentuated her deathly pallor, and her eyes shown deep and sad, and sympathetic. "What is it that you regret so much, King Pellas, that you think you deserve to be cursed?"

The King glared at her for a moment through the dusty mists of his ancient eyes, but grief flooded his senses, and broke free of his control. "My son," he said hoarsely. "I lost my son."

"You can hardly think yourself at fault for his death in battle," Sir Leon protested.

But the Fisher King showed a twinge of even greater pain, if that were possible.

"No - not my elder son, no. My younger: I sent him away because I did not believe him to be ready to rule. And he did everything he could to prove to me that he was worthy of my love and pride. He left, took on a disguise and offered his services to Constantine when Camelot was still an ally. He even warned me of Constantine's intentions, and I didn't listen. I know, he took Constantine's kingdom not long after my lands turned - I had many spies there. I know he ruled Camelot well. And, last I heard, he died at Uther's hand when the Pendragons took back the city."

Pellas sighed heavily, tears appearing in his eyes. "I wish to the Gods of this forsaken land that I had told him before I sent him away. I wish I'd told him that I was proud to have him for a son. Told him that I loved him."

Something strange was happening to Leon - his face seemed at war with an inexplicable emotion, and with a strained voice, he asked at last, "What would you say to him now, if you saw him again?"

Pellas shook his head, wincing, but replied quietly, "I would ask him - to forgive me."

"He is your son," Leon said, handing the cup back to the Fisher King and adding firmly, "he would forgive you."

The Fisher King attempted a wry smile, and absently drank from the cup again.

Almost immediately, the colour returned to his cheeks. The hand that held the cup shook, but not with weakness: Pellas released his hold on it as if it had burnt him, then tried, with shaking arms, to lift himself to his feet. Sir Leon instantly moved forward and gingerly put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Cobwebs lifted from his ancient form, colour rushed to his face. Though still an ancient man, at the very least he looked real - a figure crumbling to dust no longer. And though at first he stood, staring at his feet in disbelief and swaying a little unsteadily, Pellas' mind had rushed well ahead of him.

"Cornelius?" he whispered.

Arthur's head shot up, and Leon froze. Pellas looked up at the young knight, who suddenly seemed not a knight at all, but a young man standing before his father - nothing more.

"Cornelius Sigan?" Arthur guessed.

"Sigan is the name I took, yes," Leon muttered.

"My son, I'm so sorry," Pellas whispered, but Leon shook his head and embraced his father warmly, as he hadn't been able to do for many long years.

Morgana turned to hide her smile and slowly moved away as Lancelot and Arthur fell back to join Gwen, watching the scene from aside. Mallory, however, followed the witch.

"You knew all along that he was the King's son?" he asked her in an undertone.

Morgana nodded, staring blankly ahead, turning on her heels toward him slowly. She reached out a hand and laid it gingerly on his elbow, signaling him to move away still further before she spoke again. "Of course I knew. I'd been trying to get him here all along."

"So all this time you knew how to heal the King, you just - didn't do it. Why? Because you were waiting for the perfect moment? The moment you could draw the most benefit from?"

Morgana's bowed head shot up. He was fuming, and she'd never seen him like that before. "What does that mean, exactly?" Ice crackled in the air around them and fluttered, ringing softly as it hit the marble floors.

"You used another man's pain!" he snarled - he would have yelled, but he restrained himself and communicated his revulsion and disappointment as quietly as he could manage.

"It's not _quite_ like that," Morgana snapped back, severely affronted. "You can't force curses, Mallory. You can't force resolutions to catastrophic mistakes, especially of a magical nature. Remember, I've already mentioned to you once that we are presently in the middle of one such mistake."

"You said it was a theory."

"And now I present it to you as fact. I've been trying to unravel this muck from the beginning - full six centuries now, no less - believe me, Pellas might well consider himself lucky."

"He spent the last hundred years or more trapped in that chair - you call that lucky?"

"And not six hundred years watching people die - not because he couldn't save them, but because if he did, the world would crumble," Morgana said bitterly. "Pellas saved all of his people."

Mallory looked closely at her for a moment, slowing down just enough to make sense of what she'd said. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"No worries, it's not every day you meet an old Dragon," she sighed, attempting to somehow reclaim her usual lightness. He was beginning to notice that her jokes were lately either flat with seriousness or sharp with anger.

"A gift to you, by the way, for trying to find a cure," she extended a small bundle to him. "Pellas didn't expect that Arthur would succeed, but the fact that you brought him here showed loyalty and kindness."

"I didn't bring him here, Morgana - you did that."

"Did I? You brought him to the Perilous Lands - ostensibly to see me, but don't tell me you didn't see the allure - the chance of finally ending his pain. What was it, I wonder, that was so near to your heart, that both you and Pellas shared? Why did you come to the Perilous Lands in the first place, Mallory? Surely," Morgana raised her large grey eyes, glimmering with an understanding she would now dance around, "you could have refused Morgause's task, to find and retrieve some mythical Healing Cup. Why did you come?"

Mallory held her sparkling gaze for a moment longer, but as he reached for the bundle she snatched it away quickly.

"There's something else that the King has, isn't there?" Morgana asked.

Exasperated, he didn't continue to reach for the package. He was light on his feet, a stealthy and quick thief, but with Morgana no trick would work - somehow, she was still quicker.

"I was looking for my daughter," he said at last, "Elena. Morgause told me she'd help me find her, but I never believed that witch. And here, in the Perilous Lands, I had heard there was a dagger that could point someone back to their family. I came here to look for it, but when King Pellas told me of his younger son he seemed almost hopeful that he was still alive - I couldn't bring myself to steal from him. Now I don't know that he ever had such a thing."

"Why not?"

"Because if he had even the slightest hope, he would have used that dagger."

Morgana shook her head. "No. He thought he deserved his curse. Finding his son meant having a chance to break it. Here," she offered him the package.

Mallory didn't take it at first, expecting her to pull away again. "Why would the King present me with a gift if he did not expect to be cured?"

"He values loyalty. And a man who loves his children."

Gingerly, he took the package from her and unwrapped it, then stood, astonished, staring mutely at the small jeweled dagger in his hand - a small, beautiful, and deadly thing, as if made for a woman to hide up her sleeve.

"You're not wrong," Morgana remarked, sensing his thoughts, "it was made for a little girl, many years before she became the Queen Mother, Pellas' wife. She kept the blade to keep her children safe. They got lost once, on the moors - the two boys. She went out to find them against all reason. They were, all three of them, gone for a week, and in those days the King hadn't yet taken an interest in Magic. Not that it would have helped him much: the moors have a mind and a magic all their own, and only the mountain clans are allowed a greater latitude, a kind of limited freedom to live on the marsh, to walk safely through it and not get lost. Even so, a number of them are -_ taken_. That is what he was afraid of, when they were gone for so long."

"Hadn't he bound himself to the land?" Mallory asked.

"Look," Morgana nodded to the window. Already, the change was beginning to take hold of the desert landscape: the wind had quieted, and the thick black clouds overhead had fallen even lower to the ground. As Mallory watched, a blinding white flash and thunderous crack shook the air almost simultaneously and rain cascaded from the heavy clouds. But past the rainfall, on the mountainsides, there was little evidence of change - only that the snows had receded. "The moorland was always something other. It cannot be controlled by Man, not even a King with such knowledge of Magic."

Mallory turned the dagger over in his hands again and gently tested its weight. "How does it work?"

"A drop of your blood in the moonlight. Lay it on level ground or a stone, or a tree stump, and it will point you in the right direction."

Mallory shook his head. "No, I cannot accept this," he said sharply, holding the dagger out to the witch, who merely looked at him in askance. "Elena is not my daughter, Morgana. I found her, years ago, abandoned near a richly decorated carriage that had been robbed and set alight. She is not of my blood."

Morgan's shrugged. "The two boys were not the sons of the Queen Mother of Gielinor. She was Pellas's second wife, and she loved the two like her own, though she herself never had a child. Blood Magic has many different principles, it's more flexible than you might think. By the way, what did Morgause offer you? What sort of help?"

"I came to Cenred's kingdom because our village had been raided by his men, and my daughter went missing. I looked for her in the woods near home, anywhere she might have been. But when I didn't find her, I concluded she didn't have time to run. So I went to Essetir. I had an old friend in Cenred's court, he told me the best entryway -"

"A thief?" Morgana interrupted.

"What does that matter? Yes, a thief."

"Did you trust him?"

"We did a number of jobs together years back. Sure, I trusted him about as far as I could throw him. Enough to waylay the king in his hall and ask him a question."

"Enough to tell him you were there for your daughter?" Morgana asked pointedly.

Mallory hesitated. "No. I didn't say a word. Most of my old mates don't know why I dropped off the map."

Morgana nodded. "Go on."

"I was almost at the throne room, but Morgause intercepted me, with her guard. Threw me in the dungeons. And later she offered to help me."

"Did you tell her you were after your daughter?"

"No, never."

"Yet she knew why you were there?"

"I assumed it was a magic thing," Mallory admitted. "You do read thoughts, don't you?"

"That's a rare kind of magic thing, I must say," Morgana laughed. "Very unlikely. Remember, when we met, I told you Morgause had something particular planned for Camelot? She can't take the city without some hope of public support. She may have something very crafty in mind."

"Like what? And what does it have to do with me, or my Elena?"

"I wish I knew," Morgana sighed. "Just be careful around Morgause."

Mallory shrugged. Morgana certainly knew more than she'd said, but pressing her would get him precious little. If she didn't know for sure, she wouldn't say, and he was forced to respect that approach.

"Why would I be anywhere around her?" he asked.

"Well, if she ever returns to Lot's kingdom, you might be in a bad way," Morgana shrugged. "You still think Elena is there?"

"But I haven't found her."

"I doubt you will, even with that dagger. Magic has a way of confounding the direction. But, as I've said - I think Morgause may well have a plan for her. They will move her from where they've hidden her. That is when you will find her. Here - take this -" she removed a necklace with a startlingly dark, smoky sapphire pendant from her neck "- take this. No one will know who you are, not even Elena, unless you want them to. It's a kind of glamour - the sort that makes you unnoticeable. You're a shadow in the night, a whisper in the wind. It's also a good luck talisman of sorts - see that you return it before it's stolen from you. Or give it as a gift to someone worthy."

"Soon the children of Gielinor will return," Pellas was saying, looking out the whipping rain raging over his lands.

The grey dust was melting to reveal green fields, and below the castle the wolves frolicked in the rain and howled victory as they raced across the plains back to Greenmoor. The Moors had not been untouched by the curse of the wastelands, though many might say the ghostly mists were nothing new. But the Wolves had been starving and the haunted mists rarely left them at peace, for all that they were native: the land no longer could spare its own in the fight against decay. The mists haunted the clans, haunted their elders, showing them doom. Perhaps the land had still hoped to force them to leave while there was a chance at survival, but the Greenmoor clans had always been stubborn. This time it was greatly to their detriment: seeing the worst possible future, as even Morgana would confirm, rarely reflects well on the mind. They had become Wolves to avoid such frequent exposure, and even that did not always help.

"King Pellas," Lancelot stepped forward. "Forgive me, I am neither a knight, nor a diplomat, but I would ask you: is there no way you can help us win this war against Morgause?"

"Morgana will help you far more than I can," the old King said, "but to defeat her you have to understand her. Morgause has no wish to destroy Camelot, she stands for the very same values that your seal upholds, though in a different, and perhaps in some ways misguided, manner. And I suspect she has an ace up her sleeve that you may not be expecting. Morgana?"

From across the long hall Morgana broke off from her conversation with Mallory and looked over in askance.

"What do you think Morgause has that we don't have?" Pellas asked.

Morgana hesitated a moment, then said, "An heir."

"A what?" Lancelot voiced the question on everyone's tongue.

"An heir to the throne of Camelot, unspoiled by Uther's politics, having grown up with the consequences of them," she elaborated. "She must have someone, even an actor. Tell me, Pellas, is there some kind of magic that will recognise royal blood in Camelot's history?"

Pellas started. "Only the descendants of the Dragon Panteleimon, probably. The crown, as I understand it, has some magic in it."

"How lucky, then, that the Pendragons are indeed descendants of Panteleimon," Morgana smiled.

Pellas started. "They've kept awful quiet about that, haven't they?" he turned ok Arthur sharply.

"He didn't know," the witch sighed. "But today is a new day, and the two sons of Panteleimon stand together in one hall, having sought each other's forgiveness and welcome. And if you ever break the peace, either one of you, I personally will come for your head. Is that understood, fools? Sigan, Arthur -" she barked sharply.

She waved them over, sharp and imperative, and held out a hand to each. They stared at her, somewhat at a loss, until she grasped the right hand of each and brought them together, a glow appearing instantly as their hands touched. "Any person to object to this peace agreement had best speak now," Morgana warned.

No one said a word. The glow flared white, then vanished altogether.

* * *

With Morgana's help, the war seemed to be coming to a quick end. The forces surrounding Nemeth were the first to fall, and Morgana bought Arthur time to train his knights, blanketing the surrounding country in a harsh winter. King Lot retreated to his kingdom and cut all ties to Morgause, in spite of what Mallory reported to be heavy threats on the witch's part. She sent daily missives by raven to the king in his tower, and he replied with only a laugh and ordered the parchment burnt - to keep his castle warm, he said, with the heat of her hatred.

Mallory still passed for a minor servant, and crept all over the castle, reporting back to Morgana. They had been unwilling to let him go at first, especially with no way to communicate in good time. Mallory then suggested using a scrying basin. She'd laughed at the idea to start, stating that true practitioners rarely scryed, it was a myth anyway. But, as all myths have a component of truth to them, she'd sat down for a minute and reconsidered. As a Water Elemental, she admitted, she could probably do just about anything with even less than a basin - a glass would suffice. It would even be less suspicious.

Pushing Morgause deeper into Camelot and cornering her there with Morgana's ice-cold wind and snow was a good plan at the start. But the results were unexpected: Arthur insisted on Morgause being taken alive, and not by magical means, but of course without Morgana's help the witch slipped away and vanished, nearly without a trace.

Her forces were indeed overwhelmed and the rest had successfully been pushed back to the borders. A period of peace began - a short, uneasy time. Morgana, too, vanished into the forest, where she maintain a constant communication with only Mallory. They seemed to have developed an inexplicable kind of trust - a thief and a witch working together, who knew for what reason or purpose. King Lot was no longer of particular interest: he'd sent a peace offering to Camelot in the shape of some twenty captured knights and Morgause's book of spells.

Merlin had been acting as regent in Arthur's absence, and kept the city running smoothly until the King's return. A new, harsher side of him appeared - staunchly unwavering rule to the letter of the law. Though he was not above questioning the ridiculous and antiquated, and generally averted his eyes when it came to matters of witchcraft, he was nearly unyielding in tax law and minor infractions brought before him. Arthur had been willing to extend and in rare cases even forgive debts, but Merlin was exacting. It was no worse than in Uther's time, and it was perhaps even better. The kingdom breathed easier again, no longer in great fear of some catastrophe that magic might bring, or that its king might announce some new threat. No, Merlin's true change became apparent only when Morgause resurfaced in Camelot.


End file.
